


To Build a Home

by intothesilentland



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Deep down), Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Castiel is a Softie, Dean is a Good Friend, Depressed Dean, Depressed Sam, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, High School AU, Hurt, Hurt Dean, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Castiel, Lost Love, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Sam Ships It, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 168,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothesilentland/pseuds/intothesilentland
Summary: Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, devastating devotion and love, love, love for the man with bright eyes and dark hair. Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of always together. One moment of rejection.Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak, nine years of continents away, of not speaking, of no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean’s life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone.God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different. On the day of Jimmy Novak's funeral, Dean sees Cas for the first time in nine years. He adored Castiel the moment he met him, at only four years old. But after fourteen years of friendship destroyed by one moment of heartbreak, and after nine years of silence, Dean is convinced Cas will want nothing to do with him. And it's killing him.





	1. Holding On

**Author's Note:**

> So why am I writing a fourth story when I've already got three in progress ?! I literally couldn't tell you. But I fell in love with the idea of Dean and Cas being in love even as children, and then decided to write a super beautiful/painful fic about it. This one's gonna hurt, but it's gonna be worth it (I swear to everything there is that it ends happily, even if it doesn't feel like it.)
> 
> Also, listen to "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra and "Holding On" by Johnny Stimson.

**October 18th, 2016**

 

A rainy, empty road, lit only by streetlights that flare at the windows of Dean’s car, setting fire to the water droplets collected on each pane, flitting past the window in a constant, silent, banality. It’s cold in the way only late fall seems able to be; Dean’s fingertips and toes are numb, turning white, the rest of him a comfortable enough temperature, for the time being. It only serves to add to the confusion drenching his insides.

The streetlights flitting in and out of view as the Impala cruises past them are reflected in the water on the road; the only sounds are the car’s wheels gliding through the rain-slick streets, the thumping pitter-patter of rain on the roof, the scrape of windshield wipers, Dean’s breathing, and, rather appropriately, he considers, the muted sound of Pink Floyd’s _Hey You_ oozing out the car radio at low volume.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” He sighs, frowning, gripping tighter at the wheel in an unfamiliar kind of nervous anticipation. Grief and anxiety twist in dull, throbbing pains at his insides.

Lost. Dean feels lost, again, and is doomed, he thinks, to feel this way forever.

“I’m your mother. You have to do what I say.”

Mary’s reasoning is sound, though it doesn’t make Dean feel any kind of better.

He presses his lips together and glances up at the sky, an odd kind of green-black colour.

It’s been raining a weird amount—two weeks of what feels like torrential downpour, and it seems kind of appropriate. They’re driving to the synagogue Jimmy went to for twenty-three years, and then, Mary tells Dean, will be proceeding to the cemetery.

Dean doesn’t know what to expect—he’s only been to two funerals before, and neither of these were Jewish ceremonies.

“You’re sure you know the way?” Mary asks. Dean takes a steadying breath.

“I can remember. I was at Cas’s bah mitzvah,” He replies shortly, words clipped, but his mother only rolls her eyes.

“Last I checked, Dean, you were thirteen and couldn’t drive, back then. Are you sure you know the way?”

Dean doesn’t reply.

Jimmy is—was, _fuck,_ was—a good man. Warm and kind and awkward and like a second father to Dean when his parents had been fighting late into the night, and then, even more so, when John had been crushed in a burning building that had collapsed before he could get out in time. Everyone else Dean had turned to for comfort had said that these were the perils of firefighting. Only Jimmy had held Dean close and told him it was okay to be sad and okay to be angry and okay to be confused about losing his father.

That was Jimmy, that was what he did—always validating every fibre of other people’s lives. He’d chosen his profession well: psychiatrist. Normally Dean hated them, the lot of them, for being so damn _useless_ at helping out his younger brother, Sammy. But Jimmy was different. Jimmy was _good._

Dean had begged Jimmy to take Sam on instead of all those hopeless shrinks and therapists who’d put his brother on a cocktail of other drugs and spoke in clipped, alien sentences. Jimmy had only frowned and smiled—at the same time, as he always did—eyes sad, telling Dean that it would be a conflict of interests, and totally unethical. He knew Sammy personally, he reasoned. He couldn’t treat him.

And it’d hardly have mattered, anyway—Sam couldn’t speak to _anyone,_ not about what happened. He could hardly stand to speak about everything to Dean, let alone to some stranger in a pantsuit and horn-rimmed glasses with a master’s from Yale.

No, Jimmy was different to all of them. Truly worthy of the name counsellor, Jimmy had treated everything with kindness and questioned everything he encountered and rebuked Dean so gently Dean had hardly known it was happening.

God, and now Dean is crying.

A surprisingly warm hand slides onto Dean’s forearm, squeezing gently.

“You want me to drive? We can pull over.”

Dean’s breath stutters in his chest.

“No,” He shakes his head, scrubbing at his eyes with a balled fist. “I can—it’s just—”

It had been early morning when Dean had got the call.

At five forty-three in the AM, he’d blinked, bleary-eyed and angry, at his phone, rattling on his bedside table, threatening to fall off it with each renewed vibration.

 _“Mom?”_ He’d growled angrily down the receiver. _“The hell do you want that couldn’t wait til some more godly hour?”_

The sound of Mary’s sniffles down the wire had Dean sitting up suddenly, his anger forgotten and replaced with a flash of fear.

_“Mom? What’s up? Are you okay?”_

_“Dean—Honey—Oh, Dean… Jimmy’s dead. I’m so sorry, baby—”_

Dean hadn’t replied.

He’d dropped his phone on the floor and it landed there with an odd, hollow kind of thump, Mary’s voice echoing down the receiver as Dean gasped for air, water flooding his lungs.

Jimmy.

_“Dean, honey? Dean?”_

Jimmy Novak.

_“Dean, are you okay?”_

The man who had been like a father to Dean.

_“Dean, please?”_

Dead.

That was around seventy four hours ago. Apparently, burial traditionally happens within about twenty-four hours in the Jewish community, but what with the Novaks being now scattered across the four corners of the world…

Dean grips the wheel as tight as his hands will allow; they feel too weak to do much of anything. Jaw clenched, his lips still somehow manage to tremble, and he finds himself forced to take another shuddering breath.

Rain. Rain seemed appropriate, what with how much Jimmy had liked it, liked to sit out and go fishing in the shittiest weather imaginable, liked to light up fires in the evenings with the most torrential downpour and just _listen_ —Dean can still remember looking out of his bedroom window and seeing the Novak living-room set in a golden blaze, Jimmy prodding the fire, happy, thoughtful… God, the rain just fit Jimmy. He shouldn’t have lived in Lawrence, should’ve moved to fucking Scotland or Ireland where it could rain every day of the year, the sky permanently gray, and he could’ve been happy. But that was the thing. Jimmy had been so happy anyway.

It’s right that it should be raining today, Dean decides; right that everything should be overcast, right that the weather seems to have anticipated Jimmy’s passing from the world and had filled his last days with something he loved with all of his kind, gentle heart.

It’s early morning. Still dark. Dean scrubs at his eyes again.

He had driven out from town to pick his mom up, and is now en route to Sammy’s apartment, and then the three of them would be heading up to Jimmy’s old temple. Mary said it’d be easier on Dean if he wasn’t alone. It doesn’t feel any easier.

It’s eight when Dean pulls up in front of Sammy’s apartment block, leaving his mom in the car as he goes up to get his brother. Sam’s eyes are sunken and bloodshot and he’s still wearing sweats when Dean lets himself into his younger brother’s apartment, looking about the place to dissect how his brother is _really_ feeling, rather than how he wants Dean to _think_ he feels.

Books, fucking everywhere. Books, and a couple of bottles, which, considering everything else, is nothing to be worried about. At least, nothing to be _too_ worried about.

“C’mon, man,” Dean sighs, masking the fact that as ever, he’s relieved to see that his brother’s alive, if nothing else. “Funeral’s in just over an hour. Have you even showered, today?”

Sam pulls a puppy-dog face—unintentional, this time, though he has them practiced pretty damn perfectly—and looks down, worrying at his chapped lips. His skin seems to be sucking in all the light from the room like a black hole, he looks pale and awkward and his face appears fixed in a sad, worried expression.

“No,” He admits. “...Sorry…”

“Dammit, Sam,” Dean rolls his eyes, but at the look on his brother’s face he pulls him into a tight hug. “You go have a shower. Be quick. Service starts at nine thirty. I want to get there a little early. Have you got your suit sorted?”

Sam paws at the ground. Dean sighs again.

“It’s clean, at least…” Sammy mumbles.

“Right,” Dean mutters distractedly, pushing past his brother. “In your closet?”

“Yeah—” Sam seems a little distressed that Dean should be going through his stuff, but Dean orders him into the shower, rummaging through Sammy’s sock drawer for a clean pair for his brother.

His ring finger catches on something plastic and flat. He frowns and rummages again, finding and pulling it out, heart stopping—a small baggie of a light brown powder.

He drops it as soon as he pulls it out and realises what it is, drops it onto the jumbled pile of socks, like the thing has sent an electric current right through him.

Shit.

_Shit._

Sammy is getting bad again. Sammy is relapsing. Again.

Shit.

Scrubbing his face with his hands, Dean places the bag on top of the crumpled sheets of Sam’s bed, anger biting through him. He’ll focus on that later. Suit first.

The jacket is hung up in Sam’s closet. It’s a discoloured kind of black. Dean finds a crumpled shirt in a drawer and does his best at flattening it out—hell, he knows he doesn’t have time to fucking _iron_ the thing, so this’ll have to do.

What next? Oh, right. Pants. Where the hell does Sammy keep pants? Does he _have_ any suit pants?

Eventually, Dean finds a pair, inside-out, on the floor of Sam’s closet. He hears his brother exiting the bathroom, the gushing water turning off, the click of the door unlocking. Dean sets all the clothes of his brother’s bed and picks up the bag of brown powder.

He holds it up to his brother as he enters the room. Big, hazel eyes graze over the baggie, widening, before meeting with Dean’s own green gaze.

An odd, sputtering noise comes out of Sam’s mouth before he even finds himself able to speak.

“Dean, I—”

“Save it,” Dean rolls his eyes, shoving past his brother and striding into the bathroom, still filled with steam. Water streaks down the single, tiny window in the room, discoloured by dust and soot He drops the bag into the cracked toilet and flushes, staring hard at his brother when he appears round the doorframe.

“I can explain—” Sam shakes his head, eyes wide and pleading, but Dean can’t listen. Not today.

“Get dressed,” He says, voice quiet, though he surprisingly manages to keep it pretty even. “Get dressed, get in the car, and we can just try and fucking get through today. I’ll—” Dean cuts himself off, lip curling. He gestures dismissively at his little brother. “ _God,_ Sam,” He sighs.

“Dean I’m _sorry—”_

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Dean shoves past the younger man again. “Get dressed. The car’s waiting outside. I won’t tell mom. But _you_ will.”

“I can’t—”

Dean only glares.

Then he stomps out the dingy, cluttered apartment. Mary gives him a confused look as he lividly opens the car door, getting inside and slamming it shut.

“What’s up?” She frowns. “And what’s the holdup?”

Dean grits his teeth.

“Sammy’s… Not even dressed yet,” He answers. “Had to tell him to shower when I got in there. Place is a mess. Had to find his suit for him while he washed.”

He doesn’t tell his mom about the smack. That’s Sammy’s job.

Sadness seems to move like a river through Mary’s eyes.

“Dean,” She starts, voice cracking in her throat, “I know you—I know you’re hurting, today. But just go easy on your brother, okay? He’s… He’s hurting, too, you know?”

Of course Dean fucking knows. Resentment courses through him. Dean knows better than fucking anyone, it’s like Dean’s mom has forgotten who was there to pick up the pieces after Jess died, after Ruby gave Sam his first dose of smack, and called Dean in a panic because Sam was vomiting and crying; it’s like Mary has forgotten who was there for Sammy when he first overdosed, who called the ambulance and sat, sobbing in it with him, who was there for Sam when Ruby left him. It was _Dean._ It was _always_ Dean. And it was Dean who failed, failed his brother, failed his mom.

Ten minutes later, and Sam piles into the Impala, glancing worriedly at Dean, who only rolls his eyes and tears his gaze away from his younger brother with as much aggression as possible—that is, without his mother noticing. It’s eight-thirty now, and Sammy is squishing his knees up to his chest to fit into the back seat, looking out the back window with sunken, weary eyes.  

Dean hurts. Everything hurts. And he knows Sammy hurts too, knows Sammy’s depressed, knows he’s broken, knows that losing Jess had meant Sammy losing a part of himself, too, but… Fuck, it’s Jimmy’s damn _funeral,_ and Sam hadn’t been dressed when Dean arrived and has been stashing heroin in his drawer, and, Dean realises now, probably all over his apartment, too. Along with god knows what else.

Eight forty. Traffic. The rain is easing a little, the sky no longer black, but gray-white. It’s well and truly morning, now—and were it not so cloudy, the sun would be peeping over the buildings and storefronts in town. Instead, the sky seems heavy with the same heartbreak Dean feels and there is a bleakness in the air, the rain easing into an indecisive drizzle.

Nine AM. Still caught in traffic. Dean sighs and drums his fingers on the steering wheel, turning up the stereo. Mary and Sam share a few words. Dean doesn’t speak.

Nine-seventeen AM. Dean pulls up in front of the temple, glancing up at the tall, cream-coloured building, all stone and glass. He swallows.

Last time he was here, it was Cas’s Bar Mitzvah.

Fourteen years ago.

A lot can change in that time—a lot _had_ changed.

The place looks exactly the same, except now there’s no air of celebration, no happy people pouring in, now all the folk climbing up the steps wear black and gray and muted tones and keep their faces still and inexpressive. Dean doesn’t feel any kind of excitement as he looks up at the building, only a deep and intense kind of dread, mingling to form an ugly cocktail with the regret and grief already swirling murkily in his stomach.

Mary tugs Dean back into reality.

“The hell is this?” Dean frowns at the brimless black hat his mother has pressed into his hands.

“It’s a kippah, Dean,” Mary rolls her eyes. “You’re going into a synagogue.”

Dean frowns down at the cap.

“If it’s that necessary to wear them, you know they’ll probably hand them out, right?”

“It’s out of respect, honey—you knew Jimmy for twenty-three years—”

“I know how long I knew him,” Dean grumbles, opening his door and slamming it shut, eyes burning. His mother and brother get out after him, Mary handing Sammy a skullcap, too.

“Put it on, Dean,” Mary sighs. Dean swallows thickly, placing the kippah on his head.

“How’s this gonna stay on?” He frowns at his mother.

“I’ve got bobby pins, but unless you’re planning on racing around the place, I don’t think you’re gonna need them. _Honestly,_ Dean, I thought you said you went to Cas’s bar mitzvah?”

Dean looks down. Still drizzling, the light rain has now set a thin, silvery kind of sheen on his suit.

“Long time ago,” He shrugs. And it _was_. “Cas leant me one of his, I think.”

“Right,” Mary presses her lips together. “Well, then. Shall we go in?”

Dean can only glance up for about half a second to nod at his mother.

“Sure.”

He climbs up the wet steps after his mom and brother. He doesn’t look up.

He takes a seat next to his mom. Sam is sat on the other side of her, Dean at the end of their row. They’re near the back, and it feels appropriate, considering everything that transpired nine years ago. Dean scrunches his hands together. The casket is at the head of the chapel; he can’t look at it, he thinks that if he even stole a as much as a glance in its direction he might find his body lost to convulsions, might retch and retch until he couldn’t see or think anymore.

At least the casket is covered; Dean can’t stand the thought of seeing Jimmy’s motionless body, no longer animated, no bright blue eyes peering out at the world with gentle inquisitiveness, no soft frown, no comforting hands on shoulders no—

No Jimmy. Not any more. Jimmy dead.

More people enter behind Dean. He doesn’t turn to look, but as they walk to the front of the chapel, he catches a mess of dark brown hair, so dark it is nearly jet, in a ruffled suit and a blue tie. The owner of the suit doesn’t even glance back at him—it figures, Dean berates himself—but the sight of him has Dean’s heart crumbling and burning inside his chest, turning his lungs ash as he attempts to force air back into his body.

He wants to go home. He wants to go home, there are too many ghosts in this place, he doesn’t even realise that he’s crying as they sit down, not until Mary’s hands are on his shoulders, squeezing tightly.

Eyes, somehow caught between being cobalt and arctic, flit back to meet Dean’s gaze. Those eyes. Fuck, if that doesn’t take Dean back, if it doesn’t make him break apart even more, make his heart turn to ash. He rips himself away from the gaze, sobs not subsiding. Azure eyes still press at his body; he can feel them—they burn his skin the same way his tears continue to burn at his eyes.

Bright blues. Dean can remember them by heart, could be on his deathbed, and were somebody to ask him to map them out, he’d be able to do it. Every facet. Every sapphire vein, every teal ring, every charcoal eyelash, the way they bunch up at their corners when pressed into a smile, every star glittering behind their surface. All of it.

His hands tremble. He bunches them together again, nails pressing into his palms.

How could he be so damn selfish? It isn’t _his_ father who’s died, even if it sure feels like it; today isn’t _his_ day, he shouldn’t be the one crying hysterically at the funeral service, he should be staying quiet and respectful—really, Dean thinks, he shouldn’t even _be_ here. Not after everything.

He glances back toward the owner of the startling blue eyes. They have turned away from him, as if they had never been trained on Dean’s face in the first place, as if they had never rested upon Dean in all of their existence.

Dark hair, nearly black. Dark stubble. Of course _he_ hadn’t bothered shaving today, of course he never would. Crumpled suit. Blue tie. It’s all almost picturesque, how ruffled and beautiful and heartbreaking the man looks. Dean presses his trembling lips together.

Twenty-three years. Twenty-three years of head-over-heels, unknowable, destroying, renewing, devastating adoration and devotion and _love, love, love._ Even if Dean hadn’t always known what to call it.

He knows what to call it now. Broken, broken in a synagogue, Dean knows what it was he felt all those years he looked into the eyes of purest blue imaginable, knows what it was he felt every time their shoulders or hands strayed a little too close, brushed, touched.

Fourteen years of friends, best friends, of _‘I’d do anything for you’s_ and sneaking to each other’s homes and playing ball and sleeping in each other’s rooms and stealing liquor from parents to drink it on the same rooftop together, always together. Fourteen years of always together.

One moment of rejection.

Nine years of apart. Nine years of heartbreak. Nine years of continents apart, of not speaking, no acknowledgement, no interaction, no closure, no peace. No happiness. Nine years of Dean’s life entering motions, going through them, constant, cold and mechanic, like clockwork. Nine years of alone.

Castiel Novak. Castiel. Jimmy’s son in the big white house across the road. Cas.

It’s the first time Dean has seen him in nine years. He can’t make out the other man’s face, it’s turned away from Dean, now. He wonders how it’s aged, if Cas has laugh-lines or worry lines like his father, if he’s muscular, wiry, if he stands tall or if he slumps his shoulders, if he still inclines his head as he speaks, still squints when he’s confused, still uses words longer than anyone could ever think necessary in casual conversation, still can’t dress for shit and wears strange, endearing clothing that shows off his awkward, elegant frame.

God. Nine years. A lot has changed. And yet Dean still loves Cas just the same. Even if his heart hurts all kinds of different.


	2. Let's Go in the Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the way I think this is gonna go is there's gonna be alternating chapters between past and present  
> Obviously this one's a past one
> 
> I might have the flashback chapters just go in chronological order? Or maybe jumble them around a bit. If I do that, I'll still have how many years ago each flashback was, just so you have some bearings on time/date
> 
> I had SO MUCH FUN writing from Dean's POV as a child. What a cutie.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter, you're all so kind! I really appreciated it - and if you have any feedback on this chapter/the story so far I'd love to hear it. The next couple of chapters will probably be a little longer than these two!

_**23 years, 1 month, and 9 days earlier** _

 

“Dean, where are you?”

Dean looks up from his toy cars. He’s set up a race track all round his bedroom because his mommy had nearly tripped over it when it had been in baby Sammy’s room and told him he had to tidy it up, or he’d be in big trouble. Dean hadn’t wanted to be in big trouble. So he’d picked up all his cars and moved them into his room, while his mommy fed Sam.

“Here,” He calls back. “What is it?”

“I’m about to give some cookies to the new neighbours. In the house across the road, remember? Do you wanna come?”

Dean frowns down at the car in his hand. It’s red and has a white racing stripe on it. It’s one of his favourites.

The house across from theirs had been empty for months before the big green ‘For Sale’ sign had come down and Dean’s mommy told him that a new family would be moving in there. 

An old man and his wife used to live in the big white house opposite Dean’s nice green house. They had smiled a lot and their children used to come and visit at Christmas and the old lady used to say that Dean would break a lot of hearts when he grew up, which Dean didn’t think was true—and then one day mom said she’d gotten very sick, and the old man who’d been married to her had stopped smiling and seemed to move slower and something his eyes seemed to have turned sad. Then one day Dean’s mommy gave him a big bunch of white lilies and had told Dean in a quiet voice that the old lady had died. Not long after that, the old man had moved out of the big white house. 

Dean doesn’t know where he went

Mary appears at Dean’s door.

“Hi, mommy,” He nods up to her, eyes trained on hers.

“Hi, sweetie,” She smiles down at him. “Did you hear me?”

Dean glances down to his car again. He starts pushing it along the carpet and makes it crash into another. He makes a loud noise for the crash, and his mom giggles, crouching down on the floor in front of him.

“I, uh—” Dean frowns as he makes another car turn a flip over the first two. This car is black and sleek and pretty and it reminds him of his daddy’s car. “I’m kinda busy.”

“Playing cars is important, huh?” Mary asks, grazing the back of her index finger against Dean’s cheek. He nods.

“Uh-huh…” Dean confirms, distracted. He gets distracted a lot. Mary breathes out a soft laugh above him.

“The family that’s moved in, they have a little boy,” She states, voice expectant. Dean looks up.

“A boy?”

“Looked about your age,” She confirms. “You wanna come and meet him?”

Dean glances down to his cars again. He drops the one he was holding. Then he scrambles up, grabbing hold of his mommy’s hand, and tugs her out his bedroom.

“Hang on, Dean,” Mary chuckles. “Lemme grab Sam. You can carry the cookies. How does that sound?”

“Will he want to play?” Dean asks, hardly taking notice of his mom’s words. “Does he like baseball? Does he like cars? What’s his favourite colour?”

Mary shakes her head, giggling, and pulls her hand from Dean’s. She picks Sammy up from his cot and carries him downstairs. Dean hops after her.

“Reckon those are questions you should ask him yourself, don’t you?” Dean’s mommy glances back at him, her eyes sparking the way they always do when she laughs, only now she doesn’t laugh, only smiles warmly.

“Fine,” Dean shrugs, distracted again, looking out the window to the big white house across the street. He chews his lip. 

He jumps in surprise when Mary drops a big plastic box of cookies into his arms and balances a bunch of yellow flowers on top of it. 

“You like giving people flowers,” Dean frowns. His mom chuckles and ruffled his hair, balancing Sammy on her hip as she opens the front door of their home.

“They’re moving in, Dean,” She reminds. “Their house could probably use a little cheering up.”

Dean follows her out, clambering down the steps of their front porch, working hard to balance the cookies  _ and  _ flowers in his arms. His mommy’s hand comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder as they cross the road, even though it’s empty—it almost always is.

He climbs up the steps of the house’s huge porch, after his mommy, looking at the ivy that climbed up its pillars. The old man who used to live in here liked to garden. Dean wonders if he gardens much in his new home, wherever it was, or if he’s still too sad.

Mary knocks on the door. Dean turns and looked out at the garden. The grass has grown a little too long and looks perfect to turn somersaults in. Turning back to the house, looking through one of the windows, Dean can see piles and piles of boxes. The walls are bare, there are cans of paint in the corner of the living room.

The door opening makes Dean jump.

A man in a blue-gray T-shirt and jeans with dark hair stands behind it. He looks a weird combination between confused and friendly and curious, and smiles, frowning, at Dean’s mom.

“Hey there,” Mary smiles those big friendly smiles she keeps for new people. “I thought it was time I dropped by and introduced myself—I’m Mary Winchester, I live in the house opposite,” She gestures with her free arm, the one that isn’t holding little Sammy, “with my husband, John. These are my boys, Sam and Dean.” She gestures to each of them. “Dean’s brought cookies,” She beams, “and flowers, ‘cause I figured you might not have had the chance to decorate, yet, and they could make the place feel a little more like home.”

The man smiles, surprised, but obviously happy.

“That’s very kind of you,” He nods, taking the box of cookies and bunch of flowers from Dean when Mary pushes him gently forward, reminding him what his job here is. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” Dean’s mom beams in response. Dean peers round the man’s legs, into his home, looking for the little boy his age his mommy had promised him. He can’t see  _ anyone _ , only more boxes, and a big mirror sat on the floor of the hall. He presses his lips together and sighs, frowning. “Dean,” Mary huffs, tugging at Dean’s shoulder and pulling him back into reality. “Stop that, it’s not polite.”

“Are you looking for something in particular?” The man asks, smiling good-naturedly down at Dean. Dean looks up at him. The man’s eyes are kind, he looks at Dean like he wants to laugh at Dean and wants Dean to laugh along as well.

“Sorry,” Mary speaks for Dean. “I told him I saw that you had a little boy. I think he wants to say hello.”

“Oh,” The man smiles. “Then I’d better get him. Would you like to come inside? Everything’s a bit of a mess, I’m sorry—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean’s mom brushes off. “I’ve moved home plenty of times before, I know what it’s like.”

The man laughs as Dean follows his mother into the house. He looks about him. Most of the walls are white, some a silvery kind of gray. The house smells a little powdery and clean and slightly unreal and it makes Dean want to sneeze.

“I’m Jimmy, by the way,” The man closes the door after Dean and makes his way through the hallway and into the kitchen. “Jimmy Novak. Can I get you a coffee, or anything?” He asks Dean’s mom. “And juice, for you?” He asks Dean. “I’m afraid we haven’t got much in the way of food, just yet—”

“Oh, you should come round to our place for dinner!” Mary exclaims.

“That’s very kind—”

“It wouldn’t be a problem,” She gushes. “Really. We eat at about six—you could come over at around five-forty?”

Jimmy Novak looks a little taken aback, but he still smiles.

“Thank you—are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure,” Dean’s mom nods, beaming widely.

“Well then,” Jimmy’s eyes crinkle at their corners. “I’ll call Castiel down—that’s my son. He and Dean should probably get acquainted.”

Dean turns to his mom as Mr Novak leaves to call up the stairs of his house.

“Castiel?” Dean frowns at his mommy. She shrugs in response.

“It’s a lovely name, just not very usual.”

A moment later, there is the sound of someone clambering down stairs, and then quiet talking on the corridor. Then, Jimmy and a little boy with the same bright blue eyes and dark hair as him appear round the door.

“Castiel,” Mr Novak walks Castiel gently forward, his hand on the boy’s back the way Mary sometimes did to Dean when he was feeling shy, “this is Dean. He lives in the green house across the road from us. This is his mommy Mary Winchester, and this is his little brother Sammy. They brought cookies to welcome us into the neighbourhood. Dean wanted to ask if you would like to play with him?”

The boy has big, worried eyes. Dean decides very quickly that they were the prettiest eyes he has ever seen. He stares at them, mouth open.

“Hello,” He says. “I’m Dean.”

The boy presses his lips together and swallows.

“I’m Castiel.”

“I’m four and three-quarters.”

“I’m four, too. I turn five on the eleventh of September. My daddy says that’s nine days from now.”

Dean beams.

“Do you like cars?”

“Uh,” The boy takes a tiny step back, frowning. He reaches for his daddy’s shirt. Jimmy slid a hand onto his shoulder. “They’re alright…”

Dean deflates, looking down.

“Do you like bees?” The boy asks. Dean looks back up. Castiel’s eyes are still big, but now they look hopeful, too.

The dark haired boy wears a T-shirt with a big, bright, fuzzy bee on it. Dean guesses that Castiel must like bees a lot. Truthfully, Dean’s never taken much notice of them before. But he wants to be friends with the boy with black hair and blue eyes and a nervous, shy expression. He wants the nervous, shy expression to change into a happy friendly one. So he lies.

“Yeah,” He nods. “They’re awesome.” And then, because it seems like this isn’t quite enough, “They’re probably my favourite bug.”

The boy smiles shyly. Jimmy chuckles softly, squeezing Castiel’s shoulder.

“How about you two go and play outside?” He suggests. “You wanna grab a ball?” He looks down at Castiel. “Play catch?”

Castiel nods, wide eyes flitting away from Dean and up at his father, and a moment later hops out the room. He comes back with a big yellow ball. Maybe yellow is his favourite colour.

“You coming?” He asks Dean, peeping around the door. Dean doesn’t need to be asked twice. He skips out the room after Castiel.

Castiel jumps down the steps of his porch and turns to Dean. His dark eyebrows frame his face in such a way that he either looks constantly worried and confused, or inquisitive. He looks inquisitive now, peering at Dean with eyes that look like they contain the moon and stars. The boy is like something out of a storybook, Dean thinks, something about him seems magical and unhuman, like a fairy or an elf or some other creature that lives in the forest and mountains.

“What’s your favourite kind of bee?”

Dean falters.

“Um…” He chews his bottom lip. “There are different types?”

The other boy laughs.

“Of course there are, silly.”

He throws the ball to Dean. Dean catches it and frowned.

“I’m not silly,” He shakes his head. “What different types of bee are there?”

“Carpenter bees, bumblebees, honey bees—”

“I like honey bees.” Dean decides. He throws the ball back to Castiel. “I like honey.”

The boy smiles widely. He looks as radiant as the sun.

“I like honey bees too,” He nods. “Bumblebees are my favourite, though.” He points down at the bee on his T-shirt. “This is a bumblebee.”

“Oh.” Dean didn’t know what to say. “Cool. It looks fuzzy.”

“They are,” Castiel nods wisely. Dean guesses that he probably knew  _ everything  _ that there is to know about bees. “There are lots of different types of bumblebees. White tailed bumblebees, red tailed bumblebees,  _ tree  _ bumblebees—”

“Where did you learn about this stuff?” Dean asks.

“I like bees,” Castiel shrugs. Then he frowns. “I thought you did, too?”

He tosses the ball accusingly back to Dean.

“I do,” Dean stammers. “I just—don’t know much about them.” Maybe lying to this boy  _ hadn’t _ been such a good idea, after all. Dean feels suddenly worried.

“Oh, okay,” Castiel shrugs carelessly. “I have lots of books about them.” He gives a little smile. “I like books.”

“Me too,” Dean says quickly. “What else do you like?”

“I like playing outside. Exploring. Doing somersaults.”

“Me too!”

Castiel grins.

“You wanna have a race?”

Dean’s mouth hurts with how big his smile is. His heart starts jumping excitedly inside the cage of his chest.

“Sure!”

It’s sunny for autumn. The sky is white with clouds but not in the kind of way to make it look overcast, it seems instead as though the whole world is glowing in a silvery-golden light, the long green grass in front of the big white house—the Novak’s house, Castiel’s house, Dean realises he must now call it—seems to shimmer jade and emerald and is almost soft enough to sleep in.

Mary comes out a while later and sees Dean and Castiel playing in the grass, covered in grass stains. Dean expects for her to tell him off for getting so dirty, but she only gives a small smile and calls him over.

“Dean, we’re going back now—”

“Can’t I stay?” He asks, frowning. He feels a little ill from turning so many somersaults with Castiel, but that  _ definitely _ doesn’t mean he wants to  _ stop. _

“The Novaks are coming round for dinner tonight,” She kneels in front of Dean, still holding Sammy. “So you’ll get to play with Castiel some more, then. Is that okay?”

Dean whines and looked away.

“Oh, he’s got that puppy-dog expression down to a T,” Jimmy chuckles. “He can stay a while, if he’d like. I could drop him back home in an hour?”

Dean beams up the man. He liked Mr Novak very much, he decided. Mary hums thoughtfully, unconvinced.

_ “Please?”  _ He asks his mom, as nicely as he can. She chuckles and ruffles at his hair.

“Fine,” She sighs, smile loose. “But you’re gonna have to get cleaned up when you come back. Deal?”

“Deal,” Dean grins, hugging his mother then running back over to Castiel.

He’s never had a kid his age in the neighbourhood before. And Castiel is weird and quiet and then suddenly loud and definitely not like anyone Dean has ever met before—and sure, Dean is only four and three quarters—not even that, actually—and so Dean hasn’t actually met an awful lot of people yet… But Castiel is strange and new and Dean decides that he likes that Castiel is so strange and new, likes his eyes that look like blue stars and his frown and furrowed brow. Dean likes Castiel an awful lot, coming to think of it, feels like he and the boy fit together like the puzzles his mom pulls out when it’s raining outside.

He and Castiel are gonna be friends. Good friends. He can feel it. He’s gonna make sure of it.


	3. Wrong Turn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be another flashback, but after that, I promise Dean and Cas will interact again. Two words: HURT AND ANGST (nine years, you guys).
> 
> I had my exam today (the one for university) (and I think, or rather hope, that it went okay!) so hopefully updates for all my stories should be coming in quicker.
> 
> This chapter made me sad to write. This story has a lot of sadness in it. The fluff next chapter will hopefully redeem it, as will the ending (fingers crossed). Hope you all enjoy - and thank you to EVERYONE who's been leaving comments! You're all so lovely, it's made me very happy. Hope this chapter doesn't disappoint :)

 

Graveside. 

The rain is caught somewhere, awkward, between heavy and light. It’s not drizzle; it comes down with too much force for that, stings at Dean’s face and eyes too much for that—he has to squint as raindrops hit his eyelashes—but it’s not exactly hard enough to be a downpour, either. Most people brought umbrellas; Sammy is sharing one with mom, big and black it hangs like Dean’s mood over them as water droplets turn to silver on its surface and slide off one another, chasing themselves down its globed surface. It doesn’t cover Dean. Which is fine, actually—the cold makes this strangely real and just distant enough for Dean not to be afraid that he’s going to die with grief, and end up in the ground next to Jimmy’s lifeless body.

He thinks about what Jimmy thought about death; can’t remember the man imparting any kind of comforting words of there being a promised afterlife or peace or rest waiting for everyone who passes from this world. He helped Dean  _ so much  _ when John died—how can Dean not even remember what Jimmy  _ believed  _ about death?

Maybe Jimmy never told him.

Dean lets the rain ground his thoughts.

He wonders how it is that fourteen years, fourteen years of intimacies purer and more sincere than any other he’s ever known, any he’s seen, felt, seen written of, could end so suddenly. He wonders how it is he let nine years grow and rot at the gap between himself and Jimmy Novak’s youngest son. Now the whole universe lies between them, even if Castiel has returned from his new life—one that exists on an entirely separate continent to Dean.

And that’s just it—Cas is back, standing a matter of feet away from Dean, but he’ll only be here for seven days. After that—well, Dean has no idea. Him and Cas don’t talk any more.

He realises, stomach lurching, that he hasn’t exchanged a singe word with Castiel in almost a decade. Not one word. He wonders what his first words to Cas will be; if he’ll be given the chance to speak to the other man again, if Castiel will  _ let  _ him.

Dean ruined their friendship. If nothing else, he has to say sorry for that.

He considers how much it must have hurt Jimmy to see his son and Dean grow so distant so suddenly. It wasn’t something that crept; it was a sudden ripping of flesh away from flesh, heart from heart, soul from soul. It was agony, left Dean wounded as if he’d lost his mind, as if he’d never heal—he wondered if Cas felt the same. Feels the same. Felt anything. Feels anything.

Dean wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. 

The Rabbi, one of Bobby’s old friends, Rufus Turner, prays as the casket is lowered by shimmering white cloths. Dean feels his body lurch in temptation to wretch and convulse again, all at the thought that this is the last time he will see Jimmy Novak.

Well, not really. The last time he saw Jimmy—fuck. When  _ was  _ the last time he saw Jimmy?

He can’t remember.

Dean is dust, worse than dust, he can’t remember the last conversation he had with one of the most important father-figures in his life, can’t recall what was said, how it was said, the circumstances of the words—if Jimmy was happy, smiling that smile like the sun that his youngest child had inherited so perfectly; if he was folorn, for whatever reason, missing his children perhaps, missing Dean…

Dean’s breath stutters in his chest the way a child’s does when they’ve been weeping for hours and are trying to stem their tears. Dean feels like a child.

The casket has reached the ground of Jimmy’s final resting place.

Is that what he’d call it? A resting place? It sounds too pretentious, too pretentious for humble, gentle Jimmy Novak, who’d laugh affectionately at some of the poems Castiel would show him and inform his youngest son that poets should spend more time outdoors.

Dean almost laughs at this memory, wants to laugh at the memory of how Cas would roll his eyes at his father’s words, commenting on his immaturity, as Dean smirked at the encounter, Jimmy glancing over to wink at him as Castiel tugged him out of the room.

The thought of Cas’s hands touching Dean, even as innocently as they only ever did, makes Dean’s soul shrink inside of itself like it’s forgetting how to be, how to exist in this world any longer.

Dean is startled from his thoughts when Michael, Gabriel, Chuck and Castiel begin to recite the Kaddish prayer. 

Dean remembers a poem Cas once showed him named after this prayer, for this prayer.  _ Kaddish,  _ by Allen Ginsberg. Pages and pages long, rambling, an overflow of emotions caught between hopelessness and peace. Cas showed him it with teary eyes like he was sharing a part of his soul with Dean—which, Dean considers now, he probably was.

Dean isn’t such a guy for poetry. He never has been. It feels too much like the blood and grit of the human heart, so coarse and bloody dressed up in a way to make blood beautiful, and he’s never been able to stand it, that rawness, vulnerability—not because he doesn’t understand it, but rather because he doesn’t  _ want  _ to; doesn’t want to hurt that much. Literature causes him to ache in the way that he aches now, standing beside Jimmy’s final resting place, reminded of the earth and dust that all bodies will return to and the hopelessness, helplessness of life. 

Dean doesn’t like to be reminded of that, doesn’t want to think of it, of loss or pain or heartache.

There’s no escape from it now, not when Dean is standing in front of Jimmy’s casket in the ground, Jimmy’s casket containing Jimmy’s body, now utterly barren, inert. A sickening thought. It wrenches at bth Dean’s heart and his stomach. Is this how normal people grieve? Feeling as though they’re going to be sick, sick with the weight of their loss?

No more friendly smiles and waves as Jimmy tended to his garden, no more long talks by the fire about life and Dean’s plans for the future, with Castiel sat cross-legged next to him, no more big Winchester-Novak family dinners, no more rooms lined with books and Saturday afternoon walks. No more mac and cheese when Dean came over feeling miserable, no more slow cooked stews, no more homemade bread, nothing.

The rain provides some cover for Dean’s tears.

He can only just catch Cas’s voice. Or, what he thinks is Cas’s voice, praying with his brothers.

It’s even deeper and rougher than he remembers—or rather, than it was before—it scrapes against the man’s throat—though perhaps that’s because of his grief? No, Dean decides, the gravelly inflection sounds far to natural rumbling from within Cas’s chest as much as it comes from his throat—it always did sound natural, Dean considers—too natural to simply be the result of melancholy. The grit and honey Dean can hear as Castiel speaks with his brothers and uncle sounds far too innate, essential to the body of Cas’s voice, far too familiar, though more predominant, after years and years of spending every day speaking with the dark haired man, after long nights sleeping inches away from Castiel, longing to touch, tangled up in vivid, profound, simple conversations.

It’s beautiful, anyway, Dean decides, Castiel’s voice.. The roughness, the warmth, the near-hoarse whisper of Cas’s speech—every word is wrapped in warmth and familiarity and heartache and newness. Dean considers a world where things had turned out differently, where life had not fucked them both over, where  _ Dean  _ had not fucked things over, had not said the wrong thing at the wrong time, where Cas  _ loved  _ him and Dean woke up to the sound of Castiel’s voice every morning. Rough, gravelly, affectionate. Could it ever speak to Dean with affection again? After everything? And how much more rugged would Cas sound in the morning?

Dean can remember from years of sleeping at Cas’s house, of Cas sleeping at his house, that Castiel Novak was not a morning person. He hated the early hours with a passion, and his voice was thick and unrefined until at least ten AM. Dean used to laugh at it, beam as Castiel spoke, a pure kind of affection filling his lungs and breathing him in with something Dean had never felt before, has never felt since.

He recites the lines of the poem Cas once showed him in his head. He’s never forgotten. Never  _ will _ forget. As with everything else he and Cas shared together, he never  _ can  _ forget.

_ ‘And your memory in my head three years after’ _

“Amen” The congregation all say in unison. Dean trembles, and only remembers that he ought to be saying amen with them when it’s too late.

_ “And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realising how we suffer” _ —The poem sounded in Dean’s head, in Cas’s voice; always in Cas’s voice—ripped the air out of his lungs and left him feeling as crushed as the sodden earth beneath his feet. 

Dean remembers how Cas had read him each line, voice distant, eyes glassy, all those years ago. Dean had stared at him, Cas only a boy, then— _Dean_ only a boy—he had stared at Castiel with his mouth open, lost in the swim of tears in his eyes, watching trembling pink lips sound every line, balling his fists at his sides with how much he loved the dark haired boy. Ached with love. Always ached.

Regret and grief. These are the two feelings swirling, chief amongst all others, somewhere between Dean’s lungs and gut. He thinks he is drowning; in nine years of feeling like darkness has swallowed him whole, he feels like he is now drowning in its pitch black waters. There is no hope.

_ “And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of,” _

Dean loses it again, crying, thankfully silently, while his mother hugs his shoulders, his body shaking under her warm palms. Dean wonders if Cas reads poetry to anyone else, now—if he has found a new Dean, a new Dean to share his soul with who will share his soul back and not resent the blue-eyed man for it, for how easy he makes it. 

“Amen,” The congregation says again, and Dean only just manages to say it too, this time.

Michael is the first to begin shovelling earth onto the glossy, black casket. Three shovels. Then Chuck. They use the back of the shovel and it makes the whole process awkward and obviously difficult and Dean doesn’t understand what’s happening, why they’re doing this, only wipes his eyes clumsily, face damp from hours of rain  _ and  _ crying, now, as Gabriel takes up the shovel and tips earth, three times, onto the casket. Dean’s body shakes, his head feels heavy.

The casket of Jimmy, motionless, no longer animated, no spark of life left in his body, no nothing. No flame. No smiles. No awkwardness. Dean wants to retch again.

Now Castiel. His expression, unreadable, as it so often was, all those years ago, manages to tremble only a little now. His dark brow is furrowed, bright eyes seem somehow dimmed, as though they are a light blinking in the distance on a rainy, cloudy night—perhaps as a lighthouse across misty waters. Dean begins to shiver, though whether this is from grief, or cold, he can’t tell.

Mary taps Dean’s shoulder lightly, tugging him out of his daze.

“You wanna shovel earth on, too?”

Her voice is quiet, somehow both respectful to everyone around them, and gentle enough to Dean not to make him recoil and begin crying again.

He shrugs, shaking his head.

“Is it my place? I mean—”

“You knew him for twenty-three years, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean’s lip curls, renewed tears clouding his vision. “But I—”

“Well, I’m going to,” Mary steps forward. Sam follows her. Dean finds that he doesn’t really have any choice in joining the line, and he is rather glad for it when he finally shovels earth onto the casket, arms shaking. The thud of soil onto Jimmy’s pitch coffin gives everything… an odd kind of finality.  _ He _ would’ve wanted Dean to do this. Jimmy, who rarely spoke love in words, showed it more often through actions, would’ve wanted Dean to do this. With Dean he was constantly warm and tender and welcoming, and Dean hardly thought himself worthy of all that, now… dammit. He was crying again.

They form two lines on the path out of the cemetery, looking inwards. Chuck, Michael, Gabriel and Castiel pass between them, and more words that Dean doesn’t understand are said to the mourners passing through, words in Hebrew, a language Dean now wishes more than anything he had bothered to learn, for Cas, always for Cas, and in honour of Jimmy—but a few say  _ ‘May God comfort you,’  _ which at least Dean understands, and repeats, mumbling the words out when Gabriel and the rest move past him. 

He avoids eye-contact, gaze flitting up for a moment to meet with startling azure-blues, before he has to rip his look away as quickly as he had cast it. Cas’s eyes regard him with such a cool, removed indifference, it makes Dean’s heart break all over again. Like Dean shouldn’t even be here, like Dean has no  _ right  _ to be here, like he is intruding on something intimate and private in Castiel’s life, a life in which he no longer wants to have  _ anything  _ to do with Dean, and suddenly Dean Winchester feels like a dirtbag, all over again.

He  _ is  _ a dirtbag.

The poem Cas had once read him still echoes in his skull. Everything hurts, the sky seems to throb with how everything hurts, Dean can’t stop seeing the look in Jimmy’s eyes the day he told Dean Cas had left, had left for good, gone, continents away, across a gaping ocean, an ocean Dean now feels he could equal with his sorrows.

_ “With your eyes” _ —It was here in the poem, when Cas had read it all those years ago, that Dean had reached for Cas’s hand. It was hardly the first time they’d held hands; they did it as children all the time, and Castiel used to use physical touch to comfort Dean almost every time misery threatened to overtake him—which it often did. But when Dean had taken Cas’s hand this time, something had felt different. New. So intimate it was almost raw. Burning with purity. Blue eyes had met green, souls sliding into view for perhaps the first time since they had reached adolescence and teenage awkwardness had stifled their relationship, even if it was imperceptible. Mouth parted, Dean had wanted nothing more than to press his lips all over Castiel’s body.

He hadn’t. He wonders now how Cas would’ve reacted if Dean had actually had the spunk to  _ kiss  _ him, what Castiel would’ve said, if he’d have pushed Dean away or pulled Dean close, if he wouldn’t have ended up moving to England… 

Dean’s breaths are coming in stuttering, awkward. He’s a mess, ruined, destroyed, broken. Life has broken him: Jimmy is gone, Sammy is back on drugs, so it seems, dad is long dead, Dean’s mom is disappointed in him, and Cas… Well, Cas hates him. And Dean can’t blame him.

The love of Dean’s life, who had made the mistake of deciding to settle into Dean’s world for fourteen years, none of which he would ever get back, who would regret it until he lay in the ground with his father, who had looked at Dean and seen him as he was, and somehow had still…

Well, enough of that.

_ “With your eyes” _

Nine years ago, Dean had screwed up. Like he always does, always will. He had something good and perfect and pure and he had screwed it up by saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing,  _ being  _ the wrong thing.

_ “With your Death full of Flowers”. _

The rain stops. So do Dean’s tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said: fluff next chapter, and a happy ending.
> 
> Also, Dean and Cas will finally actually TALK in chapter 5.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. We're Gonna Be Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented last chapter, and to everyone who's been commenting so far, your words really are so appreciated! They're a massive factor in what motivates me to write, so thanks for encouraging me to keep going!
> 
> This chapter isn't as long as I'd hoped it'd be (It's a little over 2000 words, like most of the others so far) - anyone who reads/has read any of my other stories probably recognises how weird and unusual that is for me. The chapters will probably get longer after this, but I don't have all the control over it in the world, because I don't want to mess up the pacing of the story and some chapters are just gonna HAVE to be shorter, if that makes sense.
> 
> Anyway, all fluff in this chapter, hopefully it'll soothe the pain of the angst in chapters 1 and 3 (and the angst to come in chapter 5). Hope you enjoy. If you haven't, please check out my other stories! They'll hopefully make the wait for new chapters of this way less tedious!

 

“You had fun today, then?” Dean’s mommy asks, giving him a pile of clean clothes to change into. They smell like washing powder and Mary’s flowery perfumes and the outside.

Dean grins, his mouth hurts from how wide his smile reaches, a good, aching kind of hurt.

“A lot,” He confirms. His mom frowns at a grass-stain on his arm and tries to rub it off. “Did you know that there’s more than _one_ kind of bumblebee?”

Mary giggles, steering Dean upstairs towards his room. She picks up one of his toy trucks on the way, one which had been abandoned on the third stair up to Dean’s bedroom.

“I didn’t,” She shakes her head. “Did Castiel tell you that?”

“Uh-huh,” Dean nods in confirmation. He feels very proud that Castiel has told him so many amazing facts about bees, and that now, Dean can tell all _his_ friends about them. “He’s super smart. Smarter than Einstein, I bet. Smarter than _daddy_ when he’s fixing cars. Castiel is gonna be a beekeeper, when he’s a grown up. Or he’s gonna write storybooks. He hasn’t decided yet.”

“That’s nice,” Mary hums. She squeezes at Dean’s shoulders, hands warm and loving. It feels like honey is filling Dean’s system. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I want to be like daddy,” Dean beams as he entered his room, his mother after him. His toy cars and race track are still all splayed across the floor. It’s funny, but he’d forgotten about them all day. Normally playing with his toys is _all_ he can think about. “A fireman. Or a racecar driver.”

“Those both sound very exciting,” Dean’s mommy giggles as he pulls off his dirty T-shirt and changes into his clean one. “What if you want to do something a little less adventurous?”

Dean blows a raspberry.

“I’ll _always_ want to do adventurous things. Maybe I’ll be an explorer, too. Or a pirate. Or a detective!”

“All at the same time?”

“Yeah,” Dean grins. “Of course. Then I’ll _never_ get bored.”

Dean’s mom chortles and ruffles at his hair.

“You carry on changing. I’m gonna go check on dinner. We’re gonna be having ratatouille, it’s made of vegetables, you’ll like it.”

Dean nods distractedly, already glancing down at his cars and wondering if he could persuade Castiel that they’re _just_ as cool and exciting as bees, only in a different way.

“Oh—one more thing, Dean?”

Dean turns to his mom, who has stopped by the door, hand curling around its frame. She looks a little anxious, and Dean doesn’t like the expression, especially on his mother’s face. Nor does he like whatever it is that has caused it, this worried, sad face slipping over his mommy’s ordinary smile. He frowns up at Mary with wide, concerned eyes.

“Uh, Jimmy’s wife—Castiel’s mommy—she uh,” Mary kneels down on the floor and Dean recognises it as a signal to walk over to her. He does so, forehead still knitted up with worry. “She isn’t alive, anymore.” Dean’s mom speaks the words softly like she thinks they might startle Dean, but they didn’t startle him.

They only upset him. A lot.

“She died in a car accident about a year ago and Castiel’s daddy thought it would be best for them to move away from their old town. They’ve only just moved, but—” Mary sighs. “Be nice to Castiel. Be gentle with him. I think he’s a little hurt, and maybe that’s why he’s so shy. But I thought you should know that, and that’s why there won’t be a Mrs Novak eating dinner with us, tonight.”

“Oh,” Dean says. He swallows around a big lump in his throat and looks down at the blue carpet of his bedroom. Something inside of his chest aches. He isn’t used to this feeling. He doesn’t like it. “Is Castiel sad?”

“I think he must be a little sad about it, yes,” Dean’s mom squeezes his shoulders softly. “But I wouldn’t talk about it with him, if I were you. Not unless he talks about it first, which I don’t expect he will. It might make him even more sad, or make him remember how sad he felt about it in the first place. So don’t bring it up. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean nods. He swallows again, the lump in his throat not nearly going away. “So it’ll be just Castiel and Mr Novak?”

“He has another two sons, Gabriel and Michael, but they’re a lot older than Castiel. Michael is in college, and won’t be around much. I think Gabriel turns sixteen this year, maybe seventeen. Jimmy said he’d ask him if he wanted to come over, but apparently he’s a little moody after them moving home, and he might want to stay in.”

Dean nods.

“Are me and Cas gonna go to the same school together, when we’re older?”

Mary laughs softly.

“I don’t know, sweetie. Maybe?”

“What about kindergarten?”

Dean’s mom’s face turns all softness and warmth.

“I guess you might,” She chuckles. “Who knows?”

“Castiel is gonna be my best friend,” Dean decides. Something protective and fierce curls in his heart, a similar kind of feeling to the one he has for Sammy, but something about this warmth in his chest feels new and different to what he feels for his little brother. He looks up at his mom with wide eyes as she stands up again, ruffling his hair once more.

“If you say so, honey,” Her eyes crinkle at their corners. “Put your cars away when you’re done. The Novaks’ll probably be round in about a half hour.”

Dean does as he is told, and changes out of his dirty pants into the clean pair his mom gave to him earlier.

When he hears a knock at the door, he races downstairs as fast as his legs can carry him, nearly tripping several times, heart racing excitedly in his throat. He’s swinging the door open before his mom has even managed to get out into the hallway.

He’s met by an much, much older boy than him with a pair of amber eyes that match his bronze hair. He wears a gray hoodie and black converses, and something about him seems kind of scruffy, like he’s deliberately messy and doesn’t care what grown-ups think of him. The older boy smiles down at Dean, but something in the expression seems sad, like he’s lying even by smiling.

“You’re not Castiel,” Dean frowns. The boy laughs.

“I’m not? Well, damn, and here I was _so convinced_ —but it seems I’ve been living a lie for sixteen years—”

“Dean?” A voice sounds behind the older boy’s legs. Dean peeps round them and sees Castiel climbing up the porch steps.

“Castiel!”

Castiel’s daddy is behind him. He smiles down at Dean.

“Hey there,” His voice is warm and familiar. “This is Gabriel, my oldest. He’s been at school all day, that’s why you didn’t meet him earlier.”

“Hiya, Jimmy,” Mary beams. “And hello Gabriel, it’s good to meet you.”

The boy returns the sentiment good-naturedly.

Dean grabs Castiel’s hand and pulls him inside.

“Lemme show you around our house,” He squeezes the other boy’s fingers. He likes how they feel, all warm and tangled up with his. He leads Castiel up the stairs. “This is my room,” He grins, tugging Castiel through the door. “It’s where I sleep.”

“Oh,” The other boy laughs. Dean isn’t sure what he finds so funny, but he sure does like the sound of Castiel’s laughter. “You like dragons?”

Dean glances over to the other boy and sees that he’s pointing to the big poster over Dean’s bed. It has three dragons on it, one only a shadow flying in a bright blue sky, one with flashing eyes breathing fire, and another reared onto its hind legs, wings flared behind it.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean grins, hopping onto his bed and pointing at it. “I think they’re the coolest. I mean, they can breathe fire! Do you like ‘em?”

Castiel clambers onto Dean’s bed and crosses his legs underneath him.

“I like stories about them,” He nods. “You know, ones about magic and fairies and knights and dragons. I like the stories where the dragons are the good guys, best.”

Dean beams and sits down opposite Castiel, drawing his legs up underneath him as the other boy has.

“Yeah, me too,” He agrees. “Imagine having a _pet_ dragon.”

Castiel seems to like this thought very much. Dean feels light with the distant, wistful half-smile on Castiel’s face.

“I’d like that,” He considers, a moment. “What kind of dragon would you have?”

“What do you mean?” Dean frowns.

“You know, would it be really big? Or little? Or somewhere inbetween? And what colour would yours be?”

Dean’s brow furrows. He’s never even _thought_ of that before. Different kinds of dragons? The idea of it is exciting, makes Dean’s mind wander to notions of dragons the size of mountains and dragons the size of dogs that could sleep on the couch and be used as a hot water bottle on cold winter nights, the fires in their blood warming cold skin and dulling shivers.

“And would it have wings and be able to fly?” Castiel continues.

“ _All_ dragons can fly.”

“No, not all,” Castiel shakes his head. “Only some.”

“Okay, fine,” Dean paws at his comforter. “But _my_ dragon would fly. And it’d be big. And red.”

“How big? And what kind of red?”

Dean chews at his lip.

“Uh, bigger than this house,” He stretches his arms out as wide as they can go to emphasise this point. “ _Ginormous.”_ Castiel seems to enjoy this, and giggles, nose wrinkling. Dean decides quickly wants to count the lines formed at the bridge of his nose and corners of his eyes when the boy laughs. He wants to be able to remember it forever. “And—red like rubies. And, it’d have scales that _were_ rubies.”

_“Wow.”_

Dean beams at the other boy’s approval.

“And it’d breath fire _and_ ice.”

“Dragons can’t breathe ice.”

“My one can.”

Dean sounds defensive and wonders if the other boy thinks he’s rude. He doesn’t like that thought, and scrunches his hands together nervously, chewing at the inside of his mouth.

“Okay, fine, but my dragon can breathe storms.”

“How can someone breathe storms?”

“Not _someone,”_ The boy shakes his head. “A _dragon.”_

“Fine, but how can a dragon breathe storms?”

“He breathes,” Castiel does just this for effect, breathes theatrically in a deep, growling kind of way, just as a dragon really _would,_ and Dean gets pinpricks on his forearms, “and lightning and wind and rain comes out, and you can hear thunder in his throat and see stormclouds in his eyes. You don’t want to make my dragon angry, because he can make it rain for _years_.”

Dean doesn’t want to admit how cool this sounds.

Instead, he asks, “So, you dragon would be a he, then?”

Castiel frowns thoughtfully.

“Hmm,” He looks down at Dean’s sheets, drawing invisible patterns on them with the tip of his finger. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe? Maybe my dragon would be a girl. That might suit her better. Yeah. And she’d have purple eyes. And teeth that look like crystal. What about you?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shakes his head. “Maybe my dragon wouldn’t be a he _or_ a she.”

“Alright,” Castiel shrugs. “That’s fair. What if there was a tiny dragon that could fit on your shoulder and could speak all the languages in the world and tell you stories about princes and queens and faraway kingdoms?”

“You really _should_ write storybooks,” Dean states, awed by this thought. He can feel how wide his eyes have gone. Castiel blushes the prettiest shade of red in the world at Dean’s words, his cheeks flaming like little furnaces.

“Thank you,” He nods, glancing away.

“When I grow up, I want to be an adventurer,” Dean says, hoping to impress Castiel. “Like, exploring caves and new worlds and maybe even going into space and fighting monsters. And a pirate. I wanna be a pirate, too. And a fireman, like my daddy—he’s a fireman. I wanna save people as well. Maybe you could write stories about the adventures I go on?”

Castiel squints a little, then giggles.

“Yes, that sounds good. I could go on the adventures with you, too?” He asks, hopeful.

“Yeah,” Dean beams. “Yeah,” He repeats. “And it’d be us against the world!”

“Us and our dragons.”

Dean is the one to giggle, this time.

He and Castiel sit next to each other at dinner and spend the whole time talking. Dean forgets about all the grown-ups round the table and about Gabriel, and about his dad, who’s on shift and not home for the next day or two. He listens to Castiel tell him about his favourite stories, in turn tells Castiel about his favourite cars, he tells the other boy about Sammy and how much he loves him, and by the end of the night Castiel isn’t ‘Castiel’ anymore, but Cas.

It suits him better. Fit his curious, bright eyes, reluctant smile, pale pink lips, his messy dark hair. He isn’t Castiel—or, at least, he isn’t _just_ Castiel. He’s _Cas._

 _Dean’s_ Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will a. Be way longer than all the others so far, and b. Feature Dean and Cas finally talking.
> 
> Please comment etc., any feedback is really appreciated! Thanks for reading.


	5. I'll Go If You Ask Me To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this one took a while!
> 
> This is the chapter where they finally speak - sorry that it's pretty sad. I promise it'll get happier.
> 
> Next chapter will be another flashback, we'll get a few hints about what exactly happened between Dean and Cas when they were 18!
> 
> Hope you enjoy, thanks to everyone who's been commenting so far.

“So we can go round any time until eleven,” Mary says, pulling a tray of cookies out the oven. Dean stares at them, thinking of the first day he met Castiel, how he’d carried cookies over to the big white house opposite his home, barely able to fit them in his arms, and how that same day he had decided that Castiel Novak was his best and closest friend, and would be so forever.

He’d been right about the best friend bit. Not about the forever.

“Eleven?” Sam repeats. “At  _ night?” _

“Yes, at night, Sammy—though I don’t plan to stay that long. I don’t know about you two.”

Dean slumps hopelessly onto a chair.

“This is bullshit,” He mutters, lip curling. He looks out the window to his right and glares at the trees outside, turning all the shades of autumn he can imagine; ruddy brown, gold, amber, the colours of spice and rust, of clay, of bark, and of cider.

“What is?” Dean’s mom asks, brow knitting into a troubled frown as she regards her son. Dean’s jaw clenches, he looks away again, picking at the seam of a cushion on the chair.

“This—” He sighs, exasperated, bitter. His words break on his lips like the sea and sound tired and hopeless. Sadness has seeped into his bones now, it feels like a part of his being as natural and innate as his own blood. It floods his cells, filling them, stifling them, breathing them. “I don’t know, all of this,” He waves his hands in a sour kind of way, very aware of how infantile he must be coming across. “Like, why all the prayers at his funeral? Why the sitting shiva?”

“Jimmy was Jewish, Dean,” Mary frowns, almost glaring at her son. “You  _ know  _ that. And Gabriel, Michael, Chuck, Castiel, they all are, too, I assume.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it,” Dean sighs, utterly despondent.

“You’ve never had a problem with Jimmy’s faith before.”

“No, but Jimmy wasn’t  _ dead  _ before.”

“What’re you getting at?”

Dean’s eyes burn.

“Jimmy’s dead, gone! And everyone’s acting like that’s—like it’s okay—and it’s  _ not,”  _ Dean rubs fiercely at his eyes with balled fists. “And there isn’t a god watching over us, why would there be? And they’re still  _ praying—” _

“Nobody’s acting like it’s  _ okay,  _ Dean—it’s like you don’t know the first thing about Judaism. Which is ridiculous, by the way—you used to spend every waking moment with Castiel, you must’ve learned  _ something  _ about what he believes _. _ And if you’re gonna carry on this way, you won’t be going over to see the Novaks with me and Sam, at all. I won’t let you.”

“That’s fine by me. I don’t  _ care,”  _ Dean looks away. He wants to pull his knees up to his chin and curl into himself like a child, but the motion reminds him too much of something Cas used to do, and renewed tears press at his eyes. “I don’t care,” He repeats. “I don’t care.”

He’s confused and overcome with grief; first he lost Cas, now he’s lost Jimmy, and now Cas is back and acting like Dean doesn’t exist. Which, honestly, Dean can’t even hold against him.

“Then you’re selfish,” Mary frowns. “I know you’re hurting, but so are all of Jimmy’s friends, so is all his family. So is  _ Cas.  _ And this time is about  _ him _ , not you—shiva is for the family of the deceased, so that’s  _ Cas— _ you should want to be there for him, whatever you think about God and whether or not there is one. Castiel is your best friend—”

“No, he’s not,” Dean slumps. “I haven’t seen him for _nine_ _years._ He’s not my best friend.”

Mary stares at Dean a moment. Sam is looking down, awkwardly toeing at the ground, long, floppy hair falling over his eyes.

“He moved to England, Dean. He didn’t steal your kidneys. You act like he committed some kind of  _ crime  _ against you. Why did you stop speaking to him?”

Dean gets up, picking up the cookies Mary has piled onto a plate.

“It’s just… Difficult. I don’t know.” He’s lying through his teeth, and Mary can tell, judging by the look on her face in response to how quickly Dean has managed to shift his down. Damn. He never  _ was  _ a good actor. “You just said, didn’t you? He moved to  _ England—” _

“You used to do everything with him,” Sammy states, voice quiet. Dean turns to glare at him, hating the way Sam flinches back at the hard flick of Dean’s gaze. Resentment flares up inside of Dean’s body before he can stop his words—and he hates the part of himself that doesn’t  _ want  _ to stop these words, wants to make his brother feel the same hurt as Dean is feeling, right now.

“Yeah, thanks for sharing that, Sammy,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Real fucking useful contribution. We  _ used  _ to do everything together. And now we don’t. It’s almost like, I don’t know—people move on?” He squints sarcastically over at his brother, who looks down. He should leave it there; what he has just said is mean and dry and thoughtless enough, and Sam is once again doing that wounded puppy look, the one that used to make Dean turn into a big, angry, overprotective brother who wanted to hurt  _ anything  _ that had hurt his little brother; but this time, it’s  _ Dean  _ who has hurt Sammy. And seeing as damage has already been done, and Dean is angry and bitter and grief crashes over him in waves that stop him from being able to breathe or think, he continues. “Or, I say ‘people’ move on, maybe I just mean  _ most  _ people.  _ Most  _ people move on, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Sammy? ‘Cause apparently you  _ aren’t  _ most people, are you?  _ You  _ don’t move on, you just take smack until you lose all your friends, and occasionally overdose and then refuse counselling and rehab, and you cry and drop out of law school and—”

Sam has lunged at Dean, aiming a punch to Dean’s face, which hits him square in the jaw. Dean bites down, hard, onto his bottom lip at the blow, drawing the bitter tang of blood. The plate of cookies has dropped from his hand, onto the kitchen floor with a crash, shards of china flying, cookies destroyed. Mary shouts, livid, dragging Sam off of Dean before Dean can give him a black eye or break his nose.

And then, as quickly as the anger flared up inside of Dean, it dissipates. And he feels awful.

He doesn’t look at Sammy, refuses to look at the hurt that he has caused, only stares at the ground, head turned away even from the smashed plate and crushed cookies.

“Jesus! Both of you!” Mary exclaims. She looks hurt and furious and disappointed, which is probably the worst combination Dean could think of, at least on his mother’s face. “Dean, you’re visiting the Novaks. No room for bargaining. You  _ owe  _ that to Castiel, owe it to Gabriel, and you  _ definitely  _ owe it to Jimmy. Sam, you’re coming with me, we’re going over now.” She tugs at Sam’s elbow, pulling him out the room. Tall and awkward, he follows after her. “Dean, you’re making more cookies. They’d better be damn near perfect.” She picks up a basket of fruit she had left, ready, in the hallway, and opens the front door, her and Sam leaving Dean alone with his ugly thoughts and rising sense of self-loathing. It sears at his gut and chest and especially his heart.

Well, fuck. Dean has fucked up, yet again.

He gets on to making cookies. He makes them with nutmeg like he knows Cas likes. Or, used to like.

Fuck, what does Cas like, now? Nine years can change a lot, and taste is easily swayed. Maybe Cas will hate whatever Dean makes for him, just because it’s  _ Dean  _ who made it. Dean worries at his lip and stares down at his ingredients.

Screw it. He’ll put the nutmeg in. He hopes beyond hope Cas hasn’t changed  _ that  _ much.

An hour and a half later, and two batches of cookies are out the oven. Dean is stress cooking, or grief cooking, it seems. He leaves the food to cool on a new plate—he’s swept up the old one and realised that it was one of his mom’s favourites, one that she always used to leave cookies and brownies on for him and Sam to share when they were kids, and still more guilt wrenches through him.

That makes him think, though. Cas  _ loved  _ brownies, once upon a time. Loved them rich and chocolatey and so gooey they almost needed to be eaten through a straw, loved sitting somewhere warm and eating an entire fucking batch with Dean while they talked about life and school and—

Maybe Dean is only just starting to realise how lost he was when Cas left, and how  _ much  _ he lost. He hurt like hell, sure—hurt in a way he hadn’t even hurt when his father had died—and something inside of him had broken so thoroughly it was clear it could never be repaired, but… Even then, he hadn’t felt this  _ wilderness  _ raging inside of him; even then he’d had his brother and mom and known what it was he wanted to do, had a direction to go in and a reason to go there.

Now he has nothing.

He wonders if he should make brownies as well—but he’s already stalled for long enough, already spent nearly two hours deliberating over what to bake and whether or not he ought to bail, right now, out of fear—and his mom’s gonna be  _ pissed  _ if he takes any longer.

Maybe he could bring brownies for Cas tomorrow—but wait,  _ fuck,  _ he and Cas aren’t friends anymore, and turning up at Cas’s house, now, seems rude enough—but two days in a row? Dean’d be an asshole. He feels uninvited and unwelcome and he knows that it’s all his fault. God, if he had just done things differently.

He pushes some spilt flour about the pale wooden surface of the table with the crown of his finger, lost in thought. There’s a thought.  _ Would  _ he do things differently? Really?

Maybe the situation he’d found himself in had just been shitty, and it wasn’t his fault—stange an alien though that thought seems… But maybe Dean had done the right thing, said the right thing, and there had been no way for him to have a ‘happy ending’ with Cas. 

Maybe in another world there was. But not this one.

He scrubs his face with his hands and lets out a devastated, quaking sigh, something not unlike a moan. He misses Cas. Cas is right across the street, and he misses him like the moon must miss the sun, part of him destroyed, missing, invisible.

He picks up the cookies. Two plates, he’s made way more than anyone consider normal or even acceptable, but he doesn’t know what to do and when he doesn’t know what to do he just ends up doing awkward, weird shit. Like this, apparently.

Opening the kitchen door with his foot, both hands carrying a plate, he catches himself in the mirror that lines the hallway. Red, swollen eyes greet him, sunken into his face, somehow seeming more dead than Jimmy’s must look, right now. The thought makes Dean retch. He balances the plates on the stairs and tries to fix himself up, not admitting why it is he wants to look at least acceptable as he enters the Novak home.

But fuck it, it’s shiva, not a club or a bar. Dean doesn’t have to look nice. Even for Castiel. And it’s selfish and shitty and disgusting of him to even  _ want  _ to look nice for the other man, today, of all days.

He opens the front door first to make things easier for himself, then picks up the cookies, just about managing to close it with his foot after he leaves. It’s about two hours since Sammy and his mom left, since he bit those hurtful, cruel words at his brother, and Dean is only feeling worse about it. 

He’s a shitty person. It’s as simple as that.

He worries about the distance growing between him and his brother, somehow stifling and stagnated and growing by the day into a gaping canyon certain to ruin the closest friendship he’s had in his life, outside what he once had with Cas.

He can’t lose both of them.

He can’t open the door himself; he’s too full handed—and it’d feel weird to just let himself in anyway, even if that’s what he’s supposed to do. He knocks awkwardly using the side of his head, making sure he doesn’t drop either plate.

One of Castiel’s cousins opens the door.

“Uh—hi, Anna—”

“Hello,” She nods to Dean, something in her eyes telling him that she knows at least a little of what went down between Dean and Cas when they were eighteen, before Cas left for England. “You know you can let yourself in, right? That’s sort of how this works—”

It’s like even  _ she  _ doesn’t know what to say to Dean. He dreads to think what Cas will be like.

“I—I thought I was a little too full handed—”

She glances at the cookies. Fierce eyes spark with a melancholic kind of warmth.

She steps back and holds the door open for Dean.

“So your mom and brother have been here for ages,” She states as Dean steps inside. He doesn’t have any kind of idea of what to say or do, and not for the first time in his life, wants to run away from all of this. “Why’re you only just coming in?”

“I, uh—had to remake the cookies,” Dean licks his lips nervously. He glances about him to the house he hasn’t entered since—well, fuck. It doesn’t bear thinking about. All the mirrors are covered and he can smell candles burning. It reminds him of Jimmy. All of it reminds him of Jimmy. Dean wonders if Jimmy knew about Dean and Cas. Wonders what Cas told him. He must have worked it out, Jimmy was clever and empathetic and understanding and could read people like a damn book… And now, Dean has teared up all over again. Fuck. “I dropped the first batch,” He chokes out. Anna’s expression turns soft.

“Bring them into the kitchen,” She turns and leads Dean through the house—it’s hardly as though he feels unsure of the way; despite everything, he still knows this place like the back of his hand, still knows where Jimmy kept the nice china, where he liked the spoons to go in the dishwasher, where the steak knives are, fuck. Dean knows and remembers all of it.

He follows her through. The kitchen is filled with all kinds of food, some covered, some not. He can hear people talking in the living room and dining room, but the kitchen is thankfully deserted. Baby steps, Dean thinks: he can build up to facing the Novaks slowly. Talking to Anna now is disconcerting, though not quite enough to send him into a panic. This, he can handle.

She takes the plates off him and lays them down on the table.

“They smell good,” She comments, offering a polite smile, which Dean returns—though he is sure his is much more pained. “Cassie always used to talk about what a good chef you were.”

Dean’s gaze snaps down, burning.

“That’s—that’s nice of him—”

He hears Anna sigh softly and glances up, expecting her to begin berating him for being such an  _ idiot  _ all those years ago. But she doesn’t do this—probably, Dean reminds himself, because she doesn’t know what  _ happened  _ all those years ago, if she even knows that  _ something,  _ however vague this understanding may be, happened.

She regards him with a cool, sad expression.

“How are you, Dean?” She asks. The words are unexpected, as is the tenderness in her voice, as is the way her bottom lip protrudes from her mouth the way a child’s would when trying to contain tears.

“I’m doing—” Dean tries to swallow back tears and cough out a lie instead of any kind of painful truth, but no lies come. In fact, nothing seems to come—truth or otherwise. “I’m—” He chokes around his answer. “I don’t know,” He admits. He balls his fists and rubs them furiously against his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Anna regards him with something that makes Dean uncomfortable, like he’s being both scrutinised and pitied. He shies away from it.

“Maybe I should leave—” He decides. Yes, leaving sounds good. Cowardly, but better than whatever the hell  _ this  _ is.

Turning, he sees a figure in the doorway that makes his heart climb up into his throat, trembling.

Dean doesn’t say anything, can only stare and gawk like an absolute  _ moron,  _ as the figure stares back at him, steely eyes that once looked like Paradise to Dean now boring into his soul.

“Dean brought cookies,” Anna says, apparently sensing that neither Dean nor Castiel seem able to speak, right now—or maybe it’s just that Cas doesn’t  _ want  _ to speak; not to Dean, not after everything. She holds up one of the plates helpfully, and Castiel’s gaze flickers over to it, ripping off Dean’s body.

When it slides back over to Dean, the fire has changed, gone, and is replaced with the threat of water.

“I thought you weren’t coming…”

His voice— _ fuck,  _ his voice—it’s just like it  used to be, rough, stilted, awkward, warm, only rougher and deeper than it once was, like it courses with gravel, more uncomfortable and endearing and  _ beautiful,  _ Dean thinks, damn it’s beautiful—warm enough to thaw at Dean’s frozen heart, and now he thinks he’s drowning. Castiel’s voice rubs itself all along Dean’s skin and his insides and over his scalp, tracing fingertips and nails along Dean’s forearms and the hairs at the base of his neck. God. Cas. Stood in the kitchen of the big white house again. With Dean. After so many years.

“I—”

Like the idiot he is, Dean can’t seem to find the words to reply to Castiel. He almost forgets what it is the other man just said, only keeps stuttering out the same vowel sounds over and over, until he finally manages to reply with a useless, though undeniably familiar,

“Hey, Cas.”

After nine years, that it’s all Dean can stammer out is honestly pretty fucking mortifying.

Castiel seems to find it more frustrating than anything else, he gives Dean a tired, unamused look, and turns to speak to Anna.

“Can I get a drink?”

“Sure,” Anna frowns, glancing worriedly between Dean and Castiel. “What can I get you?”

“A scotch?” Castiel jokes. His expression doesn’t match the humour of his words, but it definitely mirrors their underlying, hardly veiled hopelessness. 

Ignoring Dean. That’s what he’s doing. Oh. 

Dean can’t decide if this is better or worse than him treating Dean with contempt. At least contempt would mean  _ acknowledging  _ Dean—but then, after fourteen years of baring his soul to Castiel, and seeing Cas’s soul bared in return, having Castiel speak to Dean with  _ malice  _ might just be too much for Dean’s brittle heart, today of all days, to handle. 

“Water, thank you.” Castiel amends his joke to a serious request, still refusing to acknowledge Dean any more than he already has. Which is not at all, considering the fact that once upon a time, Dean knew all Cas’s fears and heartbreaks and Cas knew all of Dean’s wildest dreams and hopes. Now he’s acting like Dean isn’t even an acquaintance.“Or—tea?”

“No problem,” Anna offers him a small smile. “Green? Mint?”

“Green,” Castiel answers. Then he sniffs, looking down. Dean swallows, running a hand through his hair. He should go.

About to leave, Dean stops short when Castiel looks up at him.

“So I thought you weren’t coming,” He says again. Dean realises that his hands are shaking. He balls them and stuffs them into his pockets, self-conscious.

The same blue eyes. They haven’t changed at all. Startling, like lightening over the sea—or rather, like being  _ under  _ the sea, and seeing a storm raging above its surface, lighting flashing across the waters above your head. The same pink lips, pursed, indignant. A heavier brow, somehow both furrowed and slanting, as though troubled and perplexed. Same head inclination, ten degrees, then twenty, then thirty to the side as he regards Dean with what Dean is certain Castiel intends to be a neutral expression. Same messy dark hair, ruffled just so, so that Dean’s fingers itch with the temptation to reach out just a little and run themselves delicately through jet-coloured tufts.

The lines on his face are different. More defined. Worry lines, crows feet, frown lines. It makes sense, Cas frowned a lot, smiled a lot, raised his eyebrows a lot, when with Dean. Always did. His eyes somehow always managed to be more expressive than his face, dancing with a white kind of fire, but he squinted and glared and frowned and laughed all the same, back when he and Dean were next to kin to one another and the world seemed a brighter place.

He looks more like Jimmy than ever; the most marked difference Dean can take note of are the bags under Cas’s eyes forming defined, heavy circles. Are they a permanent fixture? Dean remembers how, especially in their last year together, these dark rings used to grace Cas’s face more often than not—he worked hard, got little sleep. It had paid off. 

And Cas has aged well, aged gorgeously—the stubble gracing his jaw only serves to make the man even  _ more  _ fascinating, beautiful in a kind of unconventional, ethereal way; if Dean were to see Cas in a bar, now, not knowing him, not having any kind of history with him, he wouldn’t hesitate in approaching the man wearing his loosest, most lopsided, most charming smile, asking for a drink and Cas’s number and practically itching for a night with the other man.

He only just reminds himself to reply to Castiel.

“I—uh—I had to remake the cookies,” He explains uselessly. “I dropped the first batch.”

Castiel’s eyes graze over to the plates on the table. Something flickers behind them.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Dean says—and finally, it seems as though he’s said the right thing. After nine years. Nine years preceded by one moment of Dean saying the wrong thing, of Dean fucking up like he fucks everything else up, he’s finally said the right thing.

Castiel’s gaze flits back up to Dean. His startling blues glass over.

“You, uh—you brought cookies over the day we first met.”

Dean opens his mouth to exhale, but somehow nothing comes out.

Cas  _ remembers _ ?

“Do you remember that?” Castiel asks. Dean only just manages to nod, eyes burning.

“Yeah,” He confirms. “Of course.”

If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think that Castiel’s expression, watery eyes and all, was tempted to flit upwards into a smile.

“Did you—is it the same recipe? The nutmeg one?”

Dean blinks away his tears, furiously, nodding in stuttered motions of confirmation.

“Yeah—” He can’t believe Cas remembers. “Yeah, it is.”

Cas presses his lips together and nods.

“I always liked that one,” He says shortly. Renewed tears press at Dean’s eyes.

“Yes,” he says. “I know.”

Anna coughs awkwardly. Dean is startled by the reminder of her presence.

“Your tea, Cassie,” She presses the cup into Cas’s hands. Dean tears his gaze away, swallowing around the lump in his throat and gulping back the burning at the back of his eyes.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. Dean looks up, about to say something, though he doesn’t know quite what, yet, to the dark-haired man, but he has already disappeared. Dean deflates, slumping against the wall as his legs threaten to give out underneath him.

“Do you want anything, Dean?” Anna asks, turning to Dean with her pressing, quietly concerned gaze. Lips parted, Dean just about manages to stagger out a no.

“I should,” Dean waves vaguely, dismissively, disgusted at himself. “I should be the one to be doing this stuff. Not you. You should be mourning with your family, with Cas—” He just about chokes out the name, heart ripping. “I should be helping—I should be there for him—but now I’ve fucked up, and he  _ hates  _ me—”

Anna’s arms are wrapped around him faster than Dean can think to hold back the sob rising from the bottom of his chest. She frowns, body warm against Dean’s, eyes glassy. Dean can see Castiel in her face, in the slope of her eyebrows and jaw and cheekbones.

“I don’t know what happened,” Anna starts slowly, as though cautious her words will cause Dean to lash out, or, more likely, run away. “But I know what you used to mean to him. In my experience, that—that kind of thing doesn’t really go away. Even after nine years.”

She hands Dean a plate, puts a few of the cookies on it along with grapes and almonds.

“Give this to him. He hasn’t eaten all day.”

Dean looks down, face hot with shame, though he doesn’t quite know what it is directed at.

He nods once in confirmation, then turns to leave.

“I don’t know what happened,” Anna repeats, voice stopping him at the door. Dean turns to look at her again. “But he misses his friend. I didn’t—know you very well, Dean,” She seems to struggle for her words. “Only met you at a couple of thanksgivings and birthday parties. But Castiel—” She bristles, uncertain. “This is something you can fix. I know it.”

Dean blinks back tears.

“I’m sorry, Anna, but… With all due respect? It’s really not.”

He exits, not glancing back at Anna’s torn expression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 they're gonna speak a little more. Next chapter should come in a few days. Thanks for reading, please comment with any feedback!


	6. Alone in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is SO SAD
> 
> You deserve better. It will get better.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's been commenting so far, you're all the best, and so SO damn encouraging!  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter. Happy ending. I promise.

**9 years, 6 months, 2 weeks, and 1 day earlier: Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007**

**(Dean and Cas are 18)**

 

“So, I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Castiel’s voice is odd, nervous. It never normally sounds like this, normally it’s all warmth and an endearing awkwardness stifled by a decade and a half of unquestioning friendship and familiarity. Dean frowns at the sound distractedly, peeling the label of his beer. “I got accepted onto that… Uh, you know the Fulbright Scholarship—”

Dean’s gaze flicks up to Cas’s face.

It’s all dappled in moon, star and streetlight, his pointed, focussed features brought out all the more by the night air. As usual, Dean’s heart rises into his throat, pulsing with warmth and longing when he chooses to regard Cas in this light, acknowledge that his feelings for the other guy are anything more than platonic.

And they’re _so_ much more than platonic.

“You got a scholarship?” He asks, eyes wide.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. Of course it shouldn’t be a surprise. Cas is a damn genius, always has been; Dean remembers thinking how clever the youngest Novak was the first time he even _met_ him, remembers informing Mary that Cas’s intelligence rivalled that of Einstein’s…

Well, maybe Cas was a different kind of smart, but Dean still believed this compliment to be more than deserved.

“Uh-huh,” Cas confirms, avoiding eye-contact. Uh-oh. That’s unpromising. Dean regards the other boy as he stares out at the empty street ahead of them.

Like so many other nights, the pair sit on Cas’s roof; the part that juts out below his bedroom window, over the front porch of the big white house; drinking beer. They don’t need to steal it any more, it turns out that Jimmy noticed his liquor supplies were being constantly raided _months_ ago, and offered to buy Dean and Cas stuff that they could drink safely, on the condition they stopped stealing his Jim Beam and stayed in the house. Jimmy was a cool guy. Dean’s mom would _never_ be so chilled about that kind of shit—which is why Dean has no intention of telling her about it.

Technically, they’re still on the _property,_ sat up on the roof below Cas’s bedroom. And they haven’t heard any objections from Jimmy.

Having Gabriel for a son probably desensitised him a bit.

Bringing his thoughts back to himself, like reeling in a hundred yards of rope that has come unwound, it’s taking a moment for Dean to register what Cas getting a scholarship actually _means._

“So wait—” He frowns. His heart drops into his stomach. Here, it begins to fester. Then it freezes over entirely. With this, so do Dean’s limbs, in a creeping, eerie kind of cold that fills his senses and starts from his central nervous system, sprawling out over skin and nerve and sinew until Dean’s fingertips are iced with dread. “You—”

At last, Cas turns to look at him. As always, Dean struggles not to get lost in those bright blue eyes. But looking at them now, Dean thinks, something about them seems to have dimmed in the evening light.

Dean’s heart finds itself dimming with them.

“—You’re going to _Cambridge—”_

“I can decline if I want,” Cas says quickly, a little _too_ quickly, and sits back, glancing up at the sky, a watercolour mess of corals and marmalades and teals. Something about it seems otherworldly, supernatural in the way that Castiel Novak has always appeared to Dean, with his sharp cheekbones and increasingly defined jaw, pointed nose, sloping dark eyebrows, eyes filled with starlight and his untamable hair.

Rather than having this conversation, having the four corners of his carefully-constructed earth collapse around him with every passing moment, Dean would much rather to be spending his time playing with the thought of how Cas, in this light, could very easily be a fallen star from another world, something celestial and beyond the comprehension of this earth or even universe—but all he can think of _now_ is that this is probably one of his last chances to _see_ Cas in this light.

“Cas,” Dean frowns. “You got into _Cambridge._ University. In England.”

“I know, Dean,” Castiel squints, confused. It’s that look, this look in particular that screws Dean’s heart over and makes him swallow thickly, several times. “What’s your point?”

“You _can’t_ turn it down,” Dean laughs hollowly, shaking his head. “You just _can’t._ This is—I don’t know. This is your _dream.”_

“I know,” Cas repeats, letting out a long, forlorn sigh. “But now—now the dream seems so close. What if it’s not everything I hoped that it would be?”

Dean laughs for real, now, endeared as always by everything it is that composes his closest friend.

“You have an amazing habit for overthinking things, Cas.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Dean snorts at the bite in his best friend’s voice.

Then sadness rips through him.

Best friend.

Best friend. Gone. To England.

“So, English Literature, huh?” Dean asks after a deafening silence. “At Cambridge?”

“Looks like it,” Cas sniffs, taking a swig of his beer. He draws his knees up to his chest. Balances his chin on them. Dean stares steadily at him, heart refusing to move from where it has made its new home, in his throat.

“You were always gonna do big things, Cas,” Dean manages to smile. “Big things. _Good_ things. You’re a damn genius. You and Sammy, you put me to shame.”

Castiel lets out a reluctant laugh. It bubbles from his lips, falls like pebbles on the roof they sit on and bounces from there onto the ground, far below, shrouded by night.

“You’ve got your music,” He points out.

“My music is nothing,” Dean shakes his head. “Not on you. Not on what you can do. And not on what the word’s got planned for you—”

Cas has pulled Dean into a tight hug. It makes Dean swallow in an awkward, gulping kind of way, that actually doesn’t manage to remove any of the saliva from his mouth. His heart is racing.

He used to be able to hug Cas normally. Now he can’t stop feeling the weight of the world in these embraces, along with all the love in this wide universe flooding from his arms and into Cas’s body, praying with every moment he is trapped there, half-wishing the embrace will never end, that Cas won’t notice the weight with which Dean treats these moments.

He breathes into Cas’s shoulder. In, then out. The motion seems so natural, here, like it was meant to be, like Cas was meant to be his air, his oxygen, his wide galaxy.

The other boy smells like honey, as always—it’s that damn shampoo he uses, Dean knows, because whenever he showers at Cas’s house, he’ll use it too, and will spend the whole day smelling of a beehive and of his best friend who is also, he’s fairly certain, the love of his life, the thought of this flooding his heart both with warmth and fear.

“Your music isn’t nothing. Your music is everything. _You’re_ everything.”

If Dean plays these words just right, he can make out like Cas feels the same way for Dean as Dean feels for Cas. Like the earth bleeds for him.

Like Cas is molten gold and sunlight and stars poured into one another, pooled together in a vessel made of the most perfect, human flesh Dean has ever had the honour of touching, even as innocently as this, and Cas feels the same for Dean as Dean feels for Cas.

“So—uh—” Dean coughs out the words awkwardly. “King’s College, right?”

“Right,” Castiel beams, pulling back from Dean. He feels suddenly cold. He takes a large swig from his beer, insides trembling.

“You excited?” Dean asks. Stupid fucking question. Cas is studying English Literature in England, in a internationally renowned school, a train journey away from London, from Shakespeare’s Globe, another train from Shakespeare’s birthplace, living among the castles and pale, rickety market streets of an artist’s wildest fucking wet dream. Cas is gonna thrive; Cas is gonna write; Castiel is gonna get published and swept up in the world’s much-deserved praise, and probably forget all about Dean and the quiet, crushed diamond beauty of moments together such as these.

“I’m gonna explore the UK before term starts, I’ve decided,” Cas nods. “I can’t wait. Dad’s gonna pay for it, and I’m gonna get a job in summer to cover some of the costs. But then—in like, July, August time, I’m gonna fly to Britain and just _explore._ I’ll visit Edinburgh, learn about philosophers and the Enlightenment, visit the castle—go to London, learn all of its streets and shortcuts, go to Canterbury like Chaucer did. The whole thing will feel like… I don’t know, my _own_ pilgrimage, like what Chaucer took, but instead of looking at some martyr killed by a king, _I’m_ gonna be breathing poetry and plays and novels… Which is spiritual in itself, I suppose.” The guy is practically glittering with excitement. “Term starts in October. I’ll have _ages.”_

Dean scrunches his hands together.

“That sounds awesome.”

“I’m a little scared,” Cas admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t be.” Dean’s voice comes out infinitely braver and more certain than he feels. “You’re gonna be great. They’ll love you. You’ll do amazing things.”

Cas gives Dean a soft look, the one where his eyebrows slope upwards and his stormy eyes seem to glass over with moonlight.

“Thank you, Dean,” He says sincerely. His voice is like the sea, Dean finds himself caught up in Cas’s waves and wanting nothing more than to drown. “Your faith in me…” He looks back out to the road. “It’s always meant a lot.”

Dean sniffs.

“You earned it.”

“We’ll stay friends,” Castiel says suddenly. “I promise.”

Dean snorts. He doesn’t mean to sound bitter.

“We will,” Castiel frowns, stubborn, as always. “I’ll come back for the holidays, and for summer, and in England, a bachelor’s is only three years—”

“Three _years,_ Cas—”

“We’ve got fourteen years on that,” Castiel points out. “I’m pretty sure that whatever life throws at us, we’ll stick together. Fourteen years, Dean. Fourteen years of friendship versus three years of away, and totally contactable. Which do you think is going to win?”

Dean doesn’t point out that they have lasted fourteen years because they literally live _opposite_ one another, because when Dean wakes up in the morning and opens his curtains he can see Cas doing the same, in the house opposite his house, in the room opposite his room. Because here, they wave and smile to one another, Dean sometimes sticking a picture of a dick up on his window and earning a punch from the other boy when he next sees him; because they walk side-by-side everywhere they go, shoulders brushing, no need for conversation. But if they want it, they can talk for hours, and _do,_ and talk all night about everything and nothing at all.

England is a long way away. And Dean hates flying.

“What’s three years on fourteen years, Dean?” Castiel asks again. The question presses against the brick wall of Dean’s doubt, and doesn’t even wobble it.

He feigns a smile and shrugs, uneasy with lying to his best friend.

“I, uh—of course I want you to do this, Cas.” Well, at least that’s the truth. And he avoided answering Cas’s question well enough. What’s three years on fourteen? The difference between best friends and strangers, Dean supposes. “I guess I’m gonna miss you, that’s all.”

The other boy softens again. Dean swears, in that moment, he can see velvet seep from Cas’s soul.

“And I’ll miss you.”

Dean swallows at Cas’s words. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice.

“But I’m not leaving for _ages,_ remember? And after three years, I’ll be back in Lawrence, probably teaching English—because what else can you do with an English degree?—and we’ll—”

Dean has hugged Cas again.

“Do it,” He says. “Go. This is good, it’s a good thing. It hurts for me because—well, you’re my best friend. Of course it’s gonna hurt. But I’m so happy for you, too. So ignore me if I get emotional. I’m proud of you.”

“You’re my best friend, too, Dean,” Cas chokes out.

“I think fourteen years have kind of already established that, Cas,” Dean laughs, but his heart is turning to dust and filling his lungs and no amount of oxygen is going to save him from this heartbreak-induced suffocation. “No need to say it like it’s such a confession.”

Cas nearly giggles. He hits Dean lightly. Dean fakes a smile, expression trembling.

“You going to Charlie’s on Saturday?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah, of course. You want me to give you a ride?”

“It’ll have to be late if you do,” Comes the winced-out response. Dean grins and shrugs.

“That’s cool. Wouldn’t be worth it if you weren’t there, anyway.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Cas’s eyes crinkle at their corners, fold over themselves like the creases of poppy-feathers.

To cover the burning of his heart, Dean pushes the other boy lightly, chuckling.

He doesn’t mention how his soul is threatening to freeze over.

He and Cas had talked about Cas going to England _ages_ ago, last year, in fact, and Cas applying to the Fulbright program had hardly scared Dean, and definitely not in the way that it does now—not that he didn’t believe in Cas, just that back then, it hadn’t felt… real. In some weird way. Distant, less formidable than a storm on a horizon and approaching no way near as fast. But it feels painfully real now.

Dean looks out across the street again.

Cas leaving.

Well, fuck.

The darkening sky seems suddenly cold to Dean.

He falls asleep that night and dreams of gaping oceans and the panicked whir crashing planes and of a great chasm separating himself from the sky, a sky which has stars peeping out of it and a gruff, warm voice, and the chasm grows deeper and deeper and Dean drifts further and further from it until he cannot see the sky at all, and all the sunshine in the world has disappeared. And Dean is alone. Dean is all alone.

He wakes up crying and doesn’t know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least now you know why it is Cas moved to England in the first place. (And that it wasn't Dean's fault)
> 
> But it still doesn't explain why Cas stayed there after graduating! And what ruined their friendship! Well, that's coming up.
> 
> Next chapter: more conversation from Dean and Cas in the present day. Also, more hurt (I'm sorry). Things get better.
> 
> Some chapters will start being from Cas's perspective, too, I think, but that won't be for a while. ANYWAY, thanks for reading, I hope you're coping with the melancholy okay, and please comment with any feedback!


	7. In My Heart, In My Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one's a little short, and still really sad (apologies)
> 
> Next chapter will be longer, though - and feature a whole range of fluff, pining, and probably hurt, too
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, and expect chapter 8 in a few days!

The Novak living room looks different with so many people and chairs clustered in it. It was big to begin with, big and welcoming and beautifully furnished, but now it seems all kinds of unpromising to Dean and he finds himself shifting awkwardly on his feet in some sort of nervous anticipation. 

His eyes sweep the room, the people occupying it: Mary sits opposite Jimmy’s brother, Chuck, who is sat on a very low black seat, as Mary speaks to him in her low, soft voice—the one she saved for when Dean fell over as a child or Sammy came home crying from being teased at school. She uses it now for mourning, just as she used it when telling Dean and Sam that their dad wouldn’t be coming home any more, wouldn’t be coming home ever, that they’d bury his limp, scorched body in a place with far too many flowers to justifiably make Dean think of death. 

Gabriel sits on the low seat next to his uncle and looks almost bored, but Dean knows him well enough to understand that this isn’t the case. Gabe’s eyes are distant and watery, his lips parted. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing, his body is so still. Michael, next to him, on another small seat, catches Dean entering the room and offers him a curt not, lips pursed. He seems distracted.

The seat next to Michael is left vacant. Where’s Cas?

Dean’s eyes sweep the room again—and once more, his heart breaks with longing.

Sat cross-legged on the floor opposite a little girl, Castiel speaks in his soft, rough voice, his smile sad.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He thinks of everything he lost. Everything he could have had—if only life had been a little kinder. A little kinder to  _ him. _

He approaches Castiel cautiously.

“Hey,” His voice grazes his throat. “I got you—”

He can’t seem to finish his sentence when Castiel looks up at him. His voice makes a strange, grating noise and the words turn to ash in his mouth.

Castiel looks at the plate in his hand.

“Oh,” He says, taking it from Dean. “Thank you.”

Dean nods, and forces what he’s pretty damn sure is a stupidly pained smile.

The little girl looks up at him.

“Did you know Uncle Jimmy, too?”

“I—uh—” Dean struggles for his words, blinking furiously. “Yeah,” He confirms. “I did.”

“Are you friends with Castiel?” The girl asks. Dean swallows, looking first into her syrup coloured eyes, then to Castiel.

“I’m—” He stares at Cas, uselessly, unable to answer, caught completely off-guard by those bright blue eyes.

“Mara, this is Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, looking over to his—well, cousin, Dean assumes. He’s got a little catching up to do on Cas’s family. “He used to live in the house opposite this one.”

“The green one?” The girl—Mara—asks.

“That’s it,” Castiel confirms.

“So he was your neighbour?” She asks. Castiel smiles weakly and nods.

“He was.”

Mara looks up to Dean again. Dean rips his gaze away from Cas’s face.

“Castiel normally lives in  _ Europe,”  _ She states, as though this is just about the most impressive thing she knows. Dean’s smile in response to those deep brown eyes is almost sincere.

Almost.

“I’ve heard,” He laughs. Without thinking, he settles himself onto the floor next to Cas and the girl, crossing his legs as they have—then he catches himself, flushing, and glances at Cas with worried eyes—is this okay? Is it okay, considering everything? Cas only gives him a small shrug and turns away, Dean assumes it means that, begrudgingly, Castiel is fine with Dean sitting here for the time being.

He still hurts like hell.

“Where do you normally live?” The girl asks. Dean swallows and glances at Castiel once more. The other man doesn’t look at him, only stares down at the food on his plate, expression distant.

“Um—” Dean coughs, splutters awkwardly. “Not in Europe,” He laughs. Then he kicks himself internally. “And not in the green house opposite this one, any more. I live in town, close to work—”

“What do you do?” Mara asks. Dean squirms uncomfortably in his seat.

“Nothing as cool as Castiel—” He shakes his head. “Just—this and that.” Which is sort of true. Dean keeps multiple jobs to pay the bills, miserably churning through his own life, even through the parts of it he likes more—like some aspects of his work. “I teach music to high school students and give guitar lessons and sometimes perform at The Roadhouse—”

“Oh,” Mara seems to have lost interest. Castiel peers silently at Dean. “Castiel is a writer.”

Dean chokes around his reply.

“I know.”

“Will you miss your dad?” The girl turns to Castiel with her big, brown eyes. Dean wants to be fiddling with something, but has nothing to hold on to, so just fumbles with his fingers as Cas continues to pointedly give him the silent treatment. Which, all things considered, Dean can’t exactly blame him for.

Cas’s eyes are soft as they regard the little girl. Dean wonders how old she is—she can’t be older than eight or nine, or else Dean would’ve met her, or at least heard about her.

“I will,” Castiel looks down, picking up an almond and tapping it on the plate distractedly. The noise is somehow both rounded and hollow. “Yes…” He confirms, voice distant. “But that’s okay.” He pauses, pink lips parted, still looking down. “And it’s okay to be sad about it. It reminds me that he meant a lot to me, that he was a good man. And he was.” Castiel looks up to Mara again and smiles a closed-mouth smile through watery eyes. “And I wouldn’t have wished for any other father. Even if that  _ new  _ father could  _ never _ die. I’d choose your Uncle Jimmy, every time.”

Mara has stood up and pulls Castiel towards her for a hug. He laughs awkwardly, tearily, as she stands at least a head taller than him from where he sits on the floor, hugging him tightly.

“I’m gonna go find Beth,” She informs him. “I hope you feel better soon, Castiel.”

Castiel offers a faint smile.

“Thank you,”

Dean watches as Mara walks away.

When he turns back to Cas, the other man seems to be pointedly avoiding his gaze once again.

“So that was your…”

“Cousin, once removed,” Castiel presses his lips together. “Muriel’s daughter.”

“Muriel has a  _ daughter?” _

“Obviously,” Castiel glares at Dean, who shrinks down and shrivels up a little inside.

“Okay, sorry. Stupid question.” He frowns at the ground and fumbles with his hands again. “So, is she married, now?”

“To Daniel,” Castiel answers simply.

“Oh,” Dean swallows. That’s news.

It’s amazing that already, they’ve run out of conversation. They, who once used to talk for whole nights at a time, Dean and Castiel, who used walkie-talkies to use to speak to each other through all the small hours when they were kids, even when they were young adults and had phones. Dean kept his walkie-talkie under his bed. Cas did the same. Any time of night, one might pick his up to speak to the other. Those days were long gone.

“So… Mara. Amara’s granddaughter?”

“Amara’s granddaughter,” Castiel confirms distantly.

Silence.

Dean’s eyes burn in a particularly unforgiving way.

“Well, I should probably get outta your hair,” Dean starts, standing, taking a shuddering breath. At last, Castiel looks up at him.

Blue eyes shatter through his chest, ripping at his skin and soul.

Dean stops short, unable to continue, let alone breathe.

“Thank you…” Castiel frowns, lips parted, and suddenly his gaze is far too removed, eyes far too distant, to be ripping at Dean’s flesh. “Thank you for coming. And for the cookies. You didn’t have to, and I know—” He swallows, looking away. “Just… thank you.”

Dean somehow manages to sigh without breathing at all.

“I wanted to be here for you,” He replies honestly, licking his lips. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He swallows at the pained truth of his words. “Not ever.”

For the first time he can remember in nine years, Castiel smiles at Dean.

“Thank you, Dean.”

His name on Cas’s lips has Dean’s heart tearing with the saddest kind of happiness he thinks he’s ever felt. He never knew melancholy could taste so sweet. He never knew loneliness could feel so wistful. He never knew love could ache like loss.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, sorry it's been so sad so far - the first chapter from Cas's perspective should come round pretty soon :)
> 
> Please comment! Hope you enjoyed


	8. Pretend I Didn't Tear Your World Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really sorry but I think the next chapter of The College Years is gonna have to come a little late! Only one or two days, but since I had the next chapter of To Build a Home finished and ready, I thought I'd post it to ease the wait.
> 
> I'm also sorry since I believe I promised a load of fluff for this chapter? Which, like, you get in part, but... (spoiler alert) towards the end it's mainly just hurt. Sorry. *Promises happy ending again to lessen the pain*
> 
> ALSO: big tw/cw for this chapter:
> 
> \- use of the q-slur (Dean uses it in reference to himself, twice I think, but I know that like all words it can be pretty powerful and has caused/can cause a lot of hurt, so I thought I'd put a warning in.  
> \- Internalised homophobia, I guess? (or biphobia, as the case may be). Or rather mentions of it, but it being spoken of/referenced to in what is pretty much the past tense.  
> \- Talk of/reference to attempts at conversion therapy/attempts at making Dean straight through religion/scare tactics. More on that later.  
> (- Also, John Winchester's A+ parenting. But again, more on that later)

**9 years, 6 months, 1 week, and 4 days earlier**

**(Saturday, April 7th, 2007)**  
  
Dean and Cas are both 18

 

“You ready?” 

Dean had let himself into Cas’s house, nodding to Jimmy, who sat reading in the front room and glanced up to smile warmly at Dean as he climbed the stairs to Cas’s room. Now he watches as Cas fumbles for the last of his things, every bit as unsophisticatedly graceful as a wild cat.

“Think so,” Cas frowns distractedly, glancing about his bedroom. Dean leans against the doorframe, grinning affectionately at his friend, who wears a dark green sweater and ripped pale jeans, rolled up at the bottom. The dark-haired boy pulls on his pair of beaten, ruddy-brown Doc Martens.

“Lookin’ good, Cas,” Dean smirks. Castiel glances up at him and rolls his eyes, smile loose and reluctant. “Is that a soft punk look you’re goin’ for? Or grunge boy next door? Or hipster anarchist? Or—”

Cas throws a sock at Dean’s head.

“Ugh, gross,” Dean wrinkles his nose, throwing it back, hard, at the other boy. “The hell’s wrong with you? Throwin’ dirty,  _ stinky  _ socks at your best friend—”

“It was  _ not  _ stinky—”

“If this is how you treat your friends, I’d hate to be your enemy—”

Cas has stood, shoes on, laces tied, and pushes past Dean, exiting the room.

“Cold shoulder, huh?” Dean grins. “You’re so mature, Cas, honestly, it always amazes me—”

“Shuddup,” Cas grins, apparently despite himself, picking up his bag from beside the front door. “I’m not giving you shit over what  _ you’re  _ wearing, so—”

“And I appreciate it, Cas,” Dean chuckles, ruffling his friend’s hair and exiting after him. “Seeya, Jimmy,” He calls out into the house, Jimmy’s reply faint and muffled as Dean closes the door.

“Have fun, boys!”

Dean grins out into the darkness.

“Don’t mess up my hair,” Castiel sighs, straightening it back out as he jumps down the porch steps, making his way to Dean’s car.

“Can’t mess up what’s already messed, Sunshine,” Dean winks over to Castiel as he opens the driver’s door, slipping inside. Cas rolls his eyes. It’s dark out, the pale moon shining over their heads looking so hollow it seems to embody purity and loneliness themselves.

“Whatever you say, Honeybee.”

“Love it when you call me our pet names, Cas—”

“Love it when you shut the hell up, Dean,” Castiel returns the shot as quickly as it’s fired, and Dean barks out a laugh.

“So mean,” He shakes his head. “Dunno if I can cope with it.”

“Just drive, baby,” Cas replies. Dean snorts and starts up the Impala. “Just drive us away from here!”

“You can’t make me laugh when I’m driving, Cas, it’s a dick move,” Dean chuckles.

Cas props his feet up on the dashboard, ruffling at his hair again. Only Cas can get away with having his feet up on Dean’s baby like this; mainly because Dean has given up on complaining to him about it—but also very much because Dean hasn’t seen anything more beautiful than Cas humming distractedly, slouched in his seat, feet pointing upwards, hair a mess in the evening light.

Dean swallows and flicks his eyes back to the road.

“Noted,” Cas hums, then begins to rummage through his bag. “So, you’re probably not gonna be drinking much tonight, huh?”

“Not if I’m driving your drunken, sorry ass home, no,” Dean smirks. Cas hits him lightly, chuckle warm and low. “But I’ve got a beer in my bag. The rest are yours.”

“Your body could probably do with the break,” Castiel muses. Dean glares at him a moment.

“You drink as much as me,” He points out. “So don’t start.”

“Never said I didn’t,” Castiel points out. “Only that  _ you  _ drink a lot. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

“Mutually exclusive,” Dean repeats, grin loose and affectionate. “Now, there’s the kind of language a future Cambridge student should be using.”

Castiel laughs and shakes his head.

“I’m going to miss all your jokes, when I go,” He sighs wistfully.

Sadness curls around Dean’s heart.

“Nah,” He replies, swallowing back his melancholy and keeping his eyes trained on the road. “You’ll be way too busy. Way too busy learning, and way too busy havin’ the time of your life.”

Cas’s laugh is rough and tender.

“Well. I’ve been very lucky to have you as a friend.”

“Yeah, you kind of have,” Dean winks. Cas pushes him again.

“So, music is still your plan, huh?” Cas asks. Dean makes a noise of confirmation. “Then why are your tastes so shitty?” He laughs, rolling his eyes as Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water comes on.

“You think my taste in music is  _ shitty?” _

“I’ve said it time and time again.”

“I don’t know why I’m friends with you,” Dean jokes, tone severe. “Also: you’re one to talk. You like absolute  _ crap—” _

Cas pulls out a mixtape and sticks it into Dean’s baby.

“Cas, how many times—driver picks the music—”

“Driver  _ drives _ , Dean,” Cas corrects.

“I could kick you out.”

“You wouldn’t ever.”

Dean sighs and grins.

“Guess not,” He admits. “What is this?” He frowns at the stereo.

“Mazzy Star.”

“Mazzy what?” Dean frowns.

“Mazzy Star,” Cas repeats, then glances over at Dean. “Oh, don’t pull that face,” He rolls his eyes.

“What face?” Dean grins, feigning innocence. Cas squints accusingly in response. “And what’s this song even called?” Dean asks.

“Be My Angel.”

“I hope I’m not the only one in this vehicle who recognises how corny that is—”

“Hey, Dean?” Cas interrupts.

“Yeah?”

“Fuck you.”

Dean barks out a laugh.

“You’re in a pissy mood, Cas,” He comments. “Bad day?”

“Since you turned up, yeah,” Cas replies, expression sombre, tone matter-of-fact. He peers earnestly at Dean, who glances at him, smirking, before a smile flickers across the blue-eyed boy’s features.

“You can’t even stay mad at me,” Dean beams.

“I guess it’s been conditioned out of me, after my many years of putting up with your shit.”

“Fuck you.”

“You love me.”

“Fuck you,” Dean laughs, instead of confessing the truth of Cas’s words.

_ ‘They say it’s you/ That washes the way/ And brings the night/ Into the day,’  _ A doleful, both disenchanted and perfectly enchanting voice bleeds out of the car’s speakers. Dean swallows

“What did you get up to, today?” Cas asks, leaning back on his seat and crossing his legs from where they rest, still on top of the dashboard.

“What’d you say this song was called?” Dean asks.

“Be My Angel,” Castiel answers again. “And don’t laugh. What did you do today?” He asks for a second time.

_ ‘Don’t leave me lonely/ Don’t leave me unhappy/ Just bring me up/ Into your faith’ _

“Ah, not much,” Dean shrugs. Somehow this song, and the darkness surrounding them, and the warmth of the car, and Cas’s beautiful eyes trained on Dean’s face, are making it remarkably difficult to concentrate. “Mainly just… Y’know, practicing music. Playing guitar. Trumpet. Drums. Piano. Bass. Percussion, when mom asked me to. The usual. What about you?”

_ ‘Just be my angel if you love me/ Be my angel in the night/ Be my angel ‘cause you need me/ Be my angel and treat me right’ _

Normally, Dean hates Cas’s music. But this song is hurting his heart in a new and beautiful and agonizing way.

“Went to temple. Read, a lot. Did you know that Yeats wrote a poem about the pet cat of the woman he loved?—”

“Cas, I thought the whole point of Saturdays was that you  _ didn’t  _ work?”

“It’s not work, Dean, I love it,” Castiel frowns. “Shabbat means  _ rest,  _ peace—to me, there’s  _ nothing  _ more restful than reading—”

_ ‘Holding on to you/ Holding on to me/ Holding on tight/ ‘Till my love is crossed’ _

“That makes sense,” Dean’s lips twitch upwards. “English Lit, and all.”

_ ‘Don’t say it’s useless/ And don’t say forget it/ You are my spirit/ Now you are gone’ _

“God,” Dean grits his teeth, “this song is depressing.”

Cas flicks his eyes over to Dean, annoyance dancing behind them.

“I like it,” He frowns.

“Yeah? Well, I never said you didn’t. What’s next?”

“Nick Drake.”

“Fuck, you didn’t hold back on the melancholy when making this, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” Castiel shakes his head. “Melancholy is necessary.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“It’s an expression,” Castiel replies as though this ought to be obvious, “of human emotion. Therefore, it’s necessary. And honest. And honest art ought to feature it.”

“Flawed logic, Cas.”

“No it’s not, you’re just nit-picking.”

“Saturday Sun?” Dean asks, gesturing to the car stereo. Cas’s lips catch upwards into a small smile.

“Yeah,” He confirms.

“I like this one,” Dean states. “It’s so chilled, you know?”

“I know,” Castiel confirms, obviously suppressing a beam.

“You look pretty happy that you’ve gained my approval there, y’know,” Dean grins. Castiel swats at Dean.

“You know me, Dean. Always searching for your approval.”

“I  _ do  _ know you,” Dean agrees. “Pretty damn well, all said and done.”

“I’ll count myself lucky, I guess?”

“You should. It’s not usual that I let people in.”

“You’re a psychiatrist's dream, Winchester,” Castiel deadpans.

“Oh you think so, Novak?” Dean chuckles, raising his eyebrows at the other boy. “And I guess you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Seeing as my dad  _ is  _ a psych _ —” _

“Your dad isn’t like any shrink I’ve ever met, and you know it.”

“True, but—”

_ “I haven’t had to meet a whole lot of therapists,”  _ Dean finishes Cas’s sentence for him, chuckling.

“Am I really that predictable?”

“You have no idea.”

“D’you know who else is gonna be there, tonight?”

“Uh,” Dean frowns thoughtfully at the road. “Not really, no. Ash and Garth—”

“Obviously.”

“Tamara, Isaac—”

“You think they’re finally gonna start dating?”

“I think that would involve to much head-pulling-out-of-asses, honestly.”

Cas bursts out laughing. 

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” He chuckles. “They’d make a nice couple, though…”

“Uh, I don’t know what you mean by ‘nice’. Unstoppable, maybe. Terrifying,  _ definitely—” _

Cas snorts and shakes his head, grinning as he stares out the passenger window.

“Dorothy? Will she be there?” He asks.

“What do  _ you  _ think?”

“I think Charlie’s in love with her, she just can’t admit it.”

“Can’t admit it to  _ Dorothy.  _ I’ve heard her say it plenty of times.”

Castiel chuckles and ruffles at his hair again, glancing at it in the wing mirror.

“You look great, buddy,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Leave it alone. Who’re you trying to impress, anyway?”

Cas glares and shrinks back down into his seat, nose wrinkling.

“No one.”

“Cas, I’ve known you for fourteen years, near enough,” Dean smirks. “I can tell when you’re lying. So who is it? Hannah? Meg?”

“Neither of them,” Cas’s pout grows, he shrinks a little more. Dean frowns over to him.

“What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout, Sunshine?”

Cas swallows, frowning and staring ahead of them.

“When I go to England, you have to call every day.”

Dean laughs, heart filling with sadness, lungs swelling with water. Lights beat past the Impala as she drives smoothly, relentlessly, down winding roads.

“D’you know how much that’s gonna cost, Cas? No way am  _ I  _ gonna call you every day—you’ll have to call me, sometimes—”

“Fine, write, email, then,” Cas glares. “Just, promise me you will.”

Dean peers at Castiel.

“I will,” He promises.

Cas stares back at him and lifts his pinky finger to Dean.

“Pinky swear.”

The blue eyes are, undeniably, one-hundred percent serious, right now. And despite everything, despite how he knows it’s gonna piss Cas off, despite how much he hurts and it hurts to do it whilst denying the pain in Dean’s heart, Dean laughs.

“Pinky swear,” He promises, and wraps his little finger around Cas’s and squeezes, before turning back to the road.

“Thank you,” Castiel replies. Dean feigns a smile.

“No problem, Cas.”

A new song comes on.

“Okay,” Dean sighs. “The hell is  _ this?” _

“Kimya Dawson.” 

“You’re a hipster. And a nerd. You know that, right?”

“I do,” Cas hums, “I just have no problem admitting it. You can’t admit that you only like the greatest hits of mullet-rock.”

Dean bursts out laughing again, the noise bubbling up from his lips.

“Sometimes I wonder, Cas,” He chuckles, the sound rounded and sunny, “do you mean to be funny? ‘Cause you’re hilarious, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it seems so  _ unintentional _ —”

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“ _ Fuck you.” _

Dean can’t stop his laughter.

_ ‘You’re so nice and you’re so smart/ You’re such a good friend I have’ta break your heart/ Tell you that I love you then I’ll tear your world apart/ Just pretend I didn’t tear your world apart’ _

“All your songs have really sad lyrics,” He frowns, laughter dimming as he listens to Cas’s music. “Why’re you picking such depressing shit?”

“I could roast you for  _ your  _ music taste—”

“You already  _ do—” _

Castiel hits Dean.

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, feigning shock and anger. “You can’t hit the driver! We could die!”

Cas nearly giggles.

“It wasn’t  _ hard.” _

“Doesn’t matter. A hit is a hit.”

“There’s a word for people like you, Dean,” Cas smirks.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean raises his eyebrows playfully. “Hot? Awesome? Pure sex?”

“Pure sex is two words, you know.”

“I already know you’re clever, Cas, you can stop showin’ off about it.”

Castiel smiles reluctantly.

“You’re funny too, you know.”

“Aw, thanks,” Dean smirks, the expression lopsided.

“The Kinks and Velvet Underground are on this mixtape too, y’know,” He states. “Take that as a peace offering.”

“Hmm,” Dean hums thoughtfully. “I feel as though you only put them on to guarantee a ride home, too. Am I right?”

“Is the sky blue?”

Dean barks out a laugh.

“Wit sharp enough to cut with, Cas.”

“You flatter me.”

“Just tryin’ to butter you up,” Dean grins, pulling in by Charlie’s house, lights from inside flooding her front yard, music bleeding out from open windows. “Looks pretty good from out here,” He nods to the commotion. Castiel glances to it and twitches a sly smile.

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out for sure,” He opens his door and swings his feet out the car. “You coming?”

“Yep,” Dean confirms, killing the engine and getting out after Cas.

Charlie opens the door before they even reach it.

“Guys!” She beams. “You made it!”

“Heya, Charlie,” Dean accepts the hug she pulls him in for without too much fuss, rolling his eyes as he does so. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” She beams. “ _ Dorothy’s  _ here,” Her already excited eyes glitter as she says this, and Dean cracks out a rough-edged chuckle, ruffling her hair.

“You might  _ finally  _ get up the guts to have a proper conversation with her!” He side-steps her and enters the house, Charlie huffing at him.

“I talk to her  _ loads.  _ Just because I don’t contemplate the universe with her like you and Castiel—”

Cas hugs Charlie in greeting, stifling the rest of her sentence as Dean hides his blush.

“Well, then,” Cas smiles good-naturedly. “Tonight might be the night? As in,  _ the  _ night?”

“I sure hope so,” Charlie beams. Dean snorts and hits her lightly.

“Dork.”

“Dick,” She hits him back. “You guys want a drink?”

Music is thrumming from her kitchen and living-room.

“Nah, we’re good,” Dean holds up his bag. 

“Okay, cool,” Charlie leads them both through to her living room, as if they don’t know where it is. The party, already in full swing, has made Charlie’s house seem less like a home and more like a club. “Lisa’s said she wants to hook up with you, by the way,” Charlie says, leaning in close to speak the words into Dean’s ear as they peer into the room from the doorframe. Dean frowns, eyes flitting round the gathering before returning to Charlie’s face.

She peers at him as though attempting to gauge his reaction.

“Or would you prefer Aaron?” She raises her eyebrows at him. “He literally  _ told  _ me he has the biggest crush on you, you know.”

Dean is taken aback, and it probably shows.

He blinks, glancing, totally unintentionally over to Cas, who only peers at him with a soft frown. Dean nearly chokes, and has to cough.

Well, shit. Aaron? Aaron’s pretty cute, all said and done, Dean thinks to himself; big brown eyes and cute, fumblingly awkward mannerisms that Dean has often taken the time to admire, but… He’s no Cas. And Dean  _ only  _ has eyes for Cas, where guys were concerned.

Okay, so maybe that isn’t quite true; maybe Dean likes to graze his eyes over the muscled, slim torsos of his teammates after football practice, maybe he admires Dr Sexy M.D. a little  _ too  _ much, maybe he sometimes,  _ sometimes  _ will watch two men fucking each other instead of simple, straight male-female pornos, or two  _ girls  _ getting each other off… But that’s just it, isn’t it? Dean had discovered, long ago, and much to his own horror and shame, that gender isn’t that much of a  _ factor  _ in him getting his dick up.

He swings both ways, and keeps on swinging, sometimes back and forth, sometimes liking both simultaneously sometimes one exclusively—which has led to numb, elated moments of  _ ‘maybe I’m cured?’,  _ and equally horrified, numb moments of  _ ‘am I  _ completely  _ gay, now?!’ _ , but Cas is  _ different.  _ With Cas, it’s constant, never changing; and it isn’t  _ just  _ those damn sexy eyes and pink lips and deep voice, growing deeper by the day that make Dean’s knees weak.

So, as if having a crush on his best friend isn’t bad enough, Dean finds himself  _ in love  _ with Cas—and if that wasn’t already the epitome of all that was cruddy and awkward and cliche about being a teenager, Cas is  _ religious.  _ Devout. So he’d  _ hate  _ Dean if he knew anything about Dean’s pendulum of a sexuality that doesn’t seem to give a shit about what’s in between a person’s legs. Because that’s what religious people do, isn’t it? Hate the queer?

It’s what John did.

Cas is still frowning.

God, that look of disapproval is way too familiar; Dean saw it on his dad’s face more than enough when he was alive, saw it on the face of the priest John took him to, saw it on his own face as he looked in the mirror after a shower in which he’d scrubbed his skin raw and tried to purge himself of sinful desires.

So, despite proudly proclaiming that he can and does tell Cas anything,  _ everything,  _ Dean keeps this aspect of his personality; his sexuality, hidden.

“Ah,” He laughs, shaking his head and realising that he’s probably taken  _ way  _ too long in answering to Charlie’s suggestion. “Sorry, Charlie, but I can’t really say he’s my type,” He cocks a lopsided grin, regaining his cool. “Hate to shoot that one down.”

“Not your type, huh?” Charlie raises her eyebrows, unconvinced. “What d’you mean by that?”

Dean’s gaze flickers back over to Castiel, who is looking down, jaw clenched.

Well, damn. Maybe Cas  _ really  _ hates gay people.

“Think you know what I mean,” Dean rolls his eyes, face burning. “Lisa, though? She’s hot. And I  _ knew  _ she had a thing for me—”

“God, Dean,” Charlie hits Dean on the arm, sighing and shaking her head. “Do you have to be such a  _ guy?!” _

“Well, I  _ am  _ a guy, so—”

Charlie swats at Dean again and exits at the calling of her name, probably from someone in the kitchen.

Dean glances over to Castiel, who looks, for whatever reason, hurt.

“You alright, buddy?” Dean asks. Cas glances up at him, blinks for a few moments, and nods. The look couldn’t be more unconvincing. But Dean decides not to press.

“Can I get a beer?” He asks, gesturing to Dean’s bag.

“‘Course,” Dean nods distractedly, fumbling before pulling out Cas’s share of the beer they’ve brought, and handing it to him.

“Thanks,” Cas looks away. “Think I’m gonna check up on Bela. She didn’t seem great at school yesterday, so.”

Dean nods in understanding.

Bela doesn’t talk about it much, but Dean recognises a look in her eyes that he saw in his own every morning in the mirror after John realised, before Dean did, that Dean was very much queer and very much besotted with his best friend from across the road.

Dean knows what neglect looks like; knows what self-loathing looks like; knows what fear looks like. He sees all three, and more, in Bela’s eyes.

“Right…” He nods, distant. “Well, see you. Tell her I say hi.”

Because she’d probably hit Dean, and not in the playful way Charlie does, if he were to imply in any way that she might be hurting or vulnerable.

“Yeah,” Castiel glances back at Dean and forces a closed-lipped smile. Something has changed in the air between them.

It’s bitter and unfamiliar and Dean frowns at its presence, even after Cas has wandered off.

He turns back to the room and sighs, slumping down onto one of Charlie’s couches, shoving at Meg to get her to move up.

“What’s the word, hummingbird?”

Meg’s long dark hair tumbles down way past her shoulders in loose, shining waves. Her dark brown eyes glitter with amusement. Her pale skin shines in the light of the room.

Dean groans and shakes his head, opening his beer.

“Shit. Everything’s shit, is the word.”

Meg snorts.

“Geez, I’m sorry I asked.”

“You know Cas is moving to England, right?”

“He might’ve mentioned it to me yesterday,” Meg shrugs, eyeing Dean cautiously.

“Well,” Dean sighs. “That’s why everything’s gone to shit.”

Meg snorts.

“You’re so melodramatic, Deanie. Drink, you’ll feel better.”

“I’m driving,” Dean rolls his eyes. “One beer is my limit, so I’m gonna make this last.”

“Melodramatic  _ and  _ responsible,” Meg sniggers. “The  _ worst  _ combination.”

“Glad you think so,” Dean huffs and sips his drink.

“If you care so much, why don’t you tell him not to go?”

“You think I’m that much of an asshole?  _ Really?  _ To make Cas give up on his dream like that? To  _ ask  _ him to? As if he would, anyway.  _ Nothing  _ means as much to him as his dream, and I’d be some next-level dick to ask him to consider staying, especially just ‘cause I’ll  _ miss  _ him…”

Meg raises her hands in surrender.

“Fuck me, Winchester, it was just a  _ suggestion.” _

Dean makes a ‘humph’ noise and settles down into his seat on the couch. He looks about the room.

“So Lisa’s giving you a total  _ I want you to fuck me hard and fast  _ eye, right now,” Meg smirks.

Dean shoves her.

“Gross,” He wrinkles his nose. “Don’t say that.”

“Any other day you’d be laughing along, too,” Meg points out. “And making some arrogant comment about how it’s no surprise, ‘cause you’re basically  _ sex on legs,  _ or however the hell it is you describe yourself.”

“Well, today isn’t like other days.”

Dean glances over to Lisa, who, Meg being totally correct in her analysis of the situation, is eyeing Dean with something smouldering hot and somehow simultaneously girl-next-door pretty and innocent in her big dark doe-eyes.

“Why?” Meg asks, her voice coiled with something next to mirth, though more familiar and less unkind than a purely mocking tone. “‘Cause your boyfriend is moving away?”

Dean’s eyes rip away from Lisa’s and turn to the floor as his face burns.

“Cas is  _ not  _ my boyfriend,” He just about growls out. “So shuddup.”

Meg snorts again.

“Whatever you say, Winchester. Whatever you say.”

“ _ You’re  _ the one that flirts with him all the time,” Dean points out, voice strangely accusing. Meg bursts out into clumsy, slightly drunken giggles.

“Yeah, true,” Meg suppresses a grin. “But he was your boyfriend first.”

“And what, he was yours second?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Meg chuckles, lifting her knees to her chest and hugging them. “Yours first, mine second—”

“ _ Sloppy  _ seconds—” Dean smirks, at last cheering up.

“Sloppy seconds,” Meg repeats good-naturedly, “and hey, look!” She points to a place behind Dean’s head. “Samandriel’s third!”

“What?” Dean frowns, turning.

Then he sputters and chokes like a tired engine.

His blood freezes, his heart stops.

Cas.

Cas. Castiel kissing,  _ kissing,  _ Samandriel. Samandriel, a boy, who  _ isn’t  _ Dean. Also a boy.

A boy.

Cas is gay? Or—Cas  _ likes  _ guys _? _ —but he’s never hit on  _ Dean _ —what’s wrong with Dean?

His heart is breaking, crumbling up into tiny little pieces of nothing.

Cas, sat on an armchair with lithe, pretty-faced Samandriel straddling his lap, their lips meshed together, eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering, hands roaming down back and neck and chest and ass, and  _ God,  _ Dean is going to be sick.

He rips his gaze away, body threatening to convulse, tears burning at his eyes, and draws his legs up to his chest, Meg’s hollow voice echoing distantly in his head.

“Dean? Geez, I never knew you had a  _ problem  _ with it—are you a  _ homophobe _ , Dean?”

“I’m not a homophobe,” Dean’s lips curl, he blinks, hard. Cas is gay? Or bi? But  _ likes  _ men, at least, and  _ doesn’t  _ like Dean. What’s wrong with Dean?

At least Dean’s affections being unrequited before this was something he could deal with; he’d thought Cas was straight, thought that resolved at  _ least  _ some of the sadness of not being loved back, because there was a peace in knowing that  _ Dean never had a chance anyway, he was a dude, there was nothing he could do to earn Cas’s love like that— _ but now he knows he was  _ wrong. _

Cas  _ does  _ like guys, he just doesn’t like  _ Dean. _

Which means Dean must’ve fucked up in some way; not said enough, not  _ been  _ enough… Maybe Cas thinks he’s ugly? Annoying? Too needy? Too stupid for Cas’s brilliant and discerning mind?

He rubs at his eyes ferociously.

Meg’s gaze turns unbelieving.

“Wait, _shit,”_ She says, deliberating over the words like they have within them the secret to life itself. “You actually _do_ like Cas?! I was _joking_ when I said he was your boyfriend, but you _actually_ like him?! As in—you have a crush on him? You _like_ like him? You _love_ him?!”

Dean pushes Meg away.

“Fuck, no,” He spits. His lip curls again. “I’m  _ not _ gay. And I’m not a homophobe either,” He glares at Meg, standing.

“Then why’re you reacting like  _ this?”  _ She gestures to him, but Dean has stormed out of the room and makes his way up the stairs, head pounding. The world throbs in his ears.

He opens the door to Charlie’s room, familiar with all its movie posters and little, dorky, Harry Potter figurines lined up on her already-crammed bookcase, and her superhero bedsheets and her complete Tolkien collection.

Dean thanks fuck that here, at least, is empty.

He sits on the floor and curls his legs up to hug at his knees.

Well, fuck this.

He can hear the music from downstairs. He wonders where Charlie’s parents are, how she got them to OK this party. Inexplicably, he wishes the cops would show up and shut it down so he could just go  _ home. _

Cas. Castiel Novak. Gay. Or bi? Neither?

But Cas liking men, being religious—somehow balancing the two; how the hell were you supposed to do that?—and  _ not  _ liking Dean back. Not  _ loving  _ Dean back.

What a pile of awful tonight was turning out to be.

The door opens tentatively.

Dean expects Meg, coming to check up on him or berate him for being so rude to her earlier; or Charlie, ready to ask Dean how he’s doing after seeing him storm out of the party downstairs quite so dramatically—he  _ doesn’t  _ expect to see Lisa; doe-eyed, dark haired Lisa and her tan skin and pretty dark pink lips.

Dean licks his own.

“Hey,” He just about manages to rasp out.

Lisa’s mouth twitches upwards.

“Hey,” She returns, coming to sit on the floor space next to him. “Thought I saw you coming up here.”

“Well, you thought right.”

She giggles nervously.

“How’re you?” She asks.

Dean shrugs, unable to look at her.

Her skin shines golden-bronze in the light of the room like she’s some kind of apparition, which, Dean thinks to himself, she might just be.

Long dark hair tumbles onto syrup-coloured shoulders.

“You look nice, tonight,” He comments. Her tanned skin darkens with a pretty blush.

“Thank you,” Her beam comes out slowly, like the dawn, but once she’s smiling, she’s positively radiant. “You look nice, too.”

Dean snorts, mouth twitching upwards.

If only Cas thought so.

But fuck Cas. Fuck Cas for not liking Dean back, fuck Cas for making out with Samandriel right in front of Dean, fuck Cas for his pretty blue eyes and elegant features and messy hair and muscled frame, fuck Cas for his deep, rough voice and his pale lips and the things that come out of them, the witty, awkward, endearing things that have Dean beaming or smirking or doubled over in laughter.  _ Fuck Cas. _

_ Fuck Cas  _ for not caring about Dean the way Dean cares about him. Fuck Cas.

This is the thought that spurs him into kissing Lisa. Which is ironic, all things considered.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, another piece of the puzzle! Next chapter will hopefully be around 3,000 words, and then by chapter 10 the updates will be bulking out in length (I hope!)
> 
> Again, sorry about TCY - it ought to be up very soon, though I'm not quite sure when.
> 
> Some good news, however - I got into two of my favourite universities! (So while I still have my interview for my other favourite coming up, I can like, take a deep relaxing breath out and rest easy in the knowledge that a) I'm going to university!! and b) I'm going to a university that I LOVE! to study a subject I love! Good news all round.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and to everyone who's been commenting so far! You're all wonderful, I hope you enjoyed!


	9. We Are Both Lost

It had all gotten a little bit too much for Dean. That’s what he will have said at his funeral, that’s what he will have carved on his grave. He left Jimmy’s house because it all got too much and Dean’s eyes couldn’t stop burning and his mom had given him a look that said  _ it’s fine, you can go, I understand,  _ and he’d interacted with Cas only  _ twice,  _ only for a matter of  _ minutes,  _ before bailing.

So, Dean’s a coward, he’s weak, he gets it. He feels like shit, bravery isn’t gonna stop that, just make it easier to face.

These are the thoughts he has as he sits on the floor in his old bedroom of his childhood home, knees hugged to his chest, silent tears streaming down his face and leaving hot, itchy tracks on his skin.

He wonders if fucking up is something that he’s doomed to do; always, working like clockwork in a circular motion of  _ Dean has something good, life fucks it over, Dean has something else good,  _ Dean  _ fucks it over,  _ over and over until Dean dies, alone and unhappy and unfulfilled in every way imaginable. Good things don’t happen to Dean. At least, good things don’t happen to Dean and stay. Bad things happen to Dean. Bad things stay.

Vision blurred by the itch of tears, uncontainable, he rummages through one of his drawers for his old notebook, the one he used to scrawl songs into when his heart felt ready to burst; the  _ private  _ one he made sure Cas never saw and never would see, the one filled with angsty, pretentious teenage lines about pale blue eyes and messy hair, and tears out a new page, titling it something so agonisingly simple and acute and perfectly succinct that, when looking the piece back over to edit it, he finds that it’s one of the few things in his life that he can actually, justifiably, bring himself to feel proud of.

Despite everything.

_ Travelling Alone,  _ it reads.

And that just about sums it up. Lonely hearted, hating his own soul, with a mind too big and desolate for his own good, Dean is travelling alone.

When once, maybe, he could’ve had everything.

The notebook was a birthday present from Cas, rather appropriately, and so as a homage to his best friend and the love of his life, Dean filled every page with love songs of every kind dedicated to the boy in the house opposite his. Bound in black leather with pale gray lines on the paper, the notebook came to be the most earnest outpouring of all Dean’s thoughts for the most unforgiving of his teenage years.

And Cas has no idea.

The song goes through several drafts and somehow still ends up such an outpouring of emotion that Dean  _ has  _ to go downstairs, to the old piano he used to practice on, and play out several chords and notes in partner with the music, singing cautiously. And then, when he’s happy, he picks up his old guitar and tunes it again, many of the strings have grown loose with time, and dust coats the instrument’s neck and body, making Dean cough as he plays out the chords and weaves them into something complex, and, Dean thinks to himself, surprisingly beautiful.

Just like Cas.

He hasn’t been able to write music like this for years; not real, profound music that speaks the heartbreak he felt when Cas first left, and now, it seems, he cannot stop—he returns to his notebook, tearing out three new pages to scrawl over, correct, redraft, as he stares out of the kitchen window, writing another song entitled  _ Don’t Go,  _ another named  _ Won’t Be Found,  _ and another,  _ The Things I Didn’t Say. _

Travelling Alone is his best, Dean thinks. But these other three… well, they’re getting there. As close to something sincere, unpretentious, earnest, as Dean has been able to come without ripping his heart in two for close to ten years.

Maybe it’s because Dean’s heart is  _ already  _ torn in two, now that Jimmy’s gone. 

But no, being heartbroken suggests finality, an end to the story and even death, and some kind of promise of peace along with it, which Dean is certain he’ll never be able to find in the churning sorrow of his life. His last song, The Things I Didn’t Say, captures this, he thinks, and the second-to-last, Won’t Be Found… Well, he pretty much poured all his loneliness and despondency into it. Maybe with work, he’ll be able to perform them at The Roadhouse.

Travelling Alone, though? Well. It’s pretty damn near perfect, even if it breaks Dean’s heart to look at.

He gets up and gets out all the ingredients he needs for brownies. Cas’s favourite.

It’s evening by the time they’re done; Mary comes home and frowns curiously at Dean but doesn’t interrupt him. Sam is nowhere to be seen.

Dean can’t even let himself in the second time around, either.

He knocks, and Michael’s wife opens the door, this time.

“Hael,” Dean starts, awkwardly. She frowns a moment—has she really forgotten Dean’s name?

“...Cas’s old friend? Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. “That’s me. I… I, uh, I made brownies, ‘cause they used to be Cas’s favourite…”

“Come on in,” She opens the door a little wider in welcome of Dean. “And really, Dean, you don’t need to knock.”

She heads into the kitchen, Dean follows after her.

“I know…” He murmurs awkwardly. “I just…”

“You’re welcome here, Dean,” She smiles softly, fierce eyes strangely tender. “You were close enough to Castiel’s  _ kin  _ for all those years. You two grew up together, if I’m remembering right.”

Hael clearly doesn’t know what went down between Dean and Castiel nine years ago.

Dean wants to keep it that way.

“Yeah, but, y’know…” He shrugs. “Life happened, we grew apart…”

“Well,” She takes the still-cooling brownies off Dean. “You made his favourite. Obviously you still know him pretty well.”

Dean laughs, as if it could ever be that simple. As if a tray of brownies could ever make up for nine years of what Dean imagines is hate, or close enough to it.

“Yeah…” He chuckles awkwardly. “Guess we’ve got to hope Cas likes food as much as I do, huh?”

Hael’s bright eyes spark with amusement. Dean presses his lips together awkwardly.

“So, last I heard of you and Michael, you were expecting,” Dean attempts conversation. “But that was… a while ago… seven, eight years?”

Hael’s eyes have darkened.

“We,” She winces, the movement so slight Dean nearly misses it completely. “We had a miscarriage.”

“Oh,” Dean fumbles. “I’m so sorry—”

Hael shrugs it off, eyes watery.

“We have a little boy and a little girl, now. Twins. Zac and Amelia. We call her Amy. They’re both gorgeous,” She beams, “and we’re very happy.”

“Oh,” Dean sighs again, recovering. “That’s great news. Congratulations. How old are they?”

“They turn three on January first.”

“New year,” Dean states.

“Yeah,” Hael clears the kitchen a little, putting used plates into the sink. “It seemed quite a fitting time for them to come around… The start of something new, you know.”

Dean nods. He gets it.

“And Amy? Amelia—that’s—”

“After Michael’s mother, yes,” Hael confirms. “We both thought it would be nice. Jimmy was so touched, honestly,” She laughs, eyes watery again. “He was such a good grandfather.”

And a good father, too.

A good  _ man. _

Dean chokes up and forces himself to look down.

“How’s Michael with… Everything?”

Hael presses her lips together and stills for a moment.

“Well. You know Mike,” She sighs. “He doesn’t… open up, much. And he loved his father. But he’s getting by, I suppose.”

“Do you want me to help with that?” Dean asks, suddenly remembering his manners as Hael cleans up the kitchen.

Hael smiles.

“Well, thank you,” She nods. “That’d be great. Would you prefer to wash or dry?”

“I’ll do both,” Dean shrugs. “I know where everything goes.” And he does. “You sit down, relax.”

Hael pulls a grateful expression.

Dean sinks his hands, then wrists, then forearms into the hot water of the kitchen sink. He sighs, as close to contentment as he can get, at the warmth spreading through his flesh and sweetening at his limbs.

“So, two kids,” Dean states, uselessly, as he begins washing the dishes stacked in the sink. “Is that… You know, you done now? Think you’re gonna stop there?”

Hael laughs.

“You have  _ one  _ kid, Dean, and tell me how much work they are. Nope, two is plenty for me,  _ and _ Michael, I think. Honestly,” She giggles. “Try taking care of  _ one  _ little life. It’s near impossible.”

“Believe me, if I could find anyone to have a kid with me, I would,” Dean chuckles.

And, like the universe has it in for Dean, this is the moment he sees Cas at the door.

An ugly, choking, grating sound escapes his throat.

“Dean,” The other man frowns. “...I thought you’d… left?”

“I did—” Dean fumbles. “—I just—I came back—”

_ Obviously. Dean, you’re a fucking idiot,  _ spits Dean’s internal monologue.

“Dean made brownies,” Hael beams. Castiel frowns suspiciously at them.

“Oh, thank you,” His already rough voice runs thick with gravel. “You know, you don’t need to be  _ constantly  _ bringing food over—”

“No, obviously,” Dean shakes his head quickly. “I just—I thought about what I was good at, you know? As in, what I could do for you—and it wasn’t much, but this—”

Michael enters. Dean stops.

“Hael, I think we’re calling it,” He states. “Rain’s started up again. Maybe there’s a storm passing through—oh,” He spots Dean. “—I thought you’d left?”

“I came back,” Dean states, uselessly.

“We can tell,” Castiel says, rolling his eyes and picking up discarded cups, setting them by the sink. Dean honestly thinks he’s going to cry with regret. “Why?”

“—I thought they—the brownies, I mean—I thought they might make you feel better, I don’t—”

Gabriel enters. A smile twitches at his lips.

“What’s that smell? It’s  _ heavenly.” _

“Dean made brownies.”

“Seriously?” The small man grins. “I’ve missed you, Deano,” He pulls Dean away from the sink and into one of his fucking octopus-hugs.

“Aw, thanks, Gabe,” Dean flushes. Gabriel doesn’t even reply, he’s already grabbed a brownie and is stuffing it into his mouth. Dean remembers how much the guy likes fucking  _ anything  _ with sugar in it.

Cas is casting doleful eyes over to Gabriel.

“What?” Gabriel frowns at his younger brother. “They’re good.”

Castiel sighs.

Apparently forgiveness, of any kind, for Dean’s actions nine years ago, is not on the cards.

“So how’ve you been, Dean?” Gabriel asks, sitting down.

Dean resumes doing the dishes, turning his body awkwardly to be able to see Gabriel, face red. His hands need to be doing something for him to be able to open up.

“I’ve been…” Dean swallows. “Uh, kinda…” He worries at his lip. “You want the honest answer, or the polite one?”

Gabriel barks out a laugh.

“I’ve missed you,” He repeats. “But seriously. How are you?”

Dean shrugs.

“I’ve been better…” He looks at the floor.

“What do you mean by that?”

Dean doesn’t want to open up.

“Well, you know how things are…” He says, awkwardly.

“With Sam?”

Gabriel’s candidness is enough to make Dean sputter.

“Gabe,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Stop making him uncomfortable.”

Dean shoots Castiel a grateful look. Cas ignores it.

Dean’s heart breaks a little more.

“But what about you guys?” Dean asks. “I feel… I don’t know, like I’ve been so rude, like I should be doing more for you all—”

“We’re fine,” Gabe shrugs, perhaps a little too quickly. Michael’s eyes have turned to the floor, Cas has turned away completely. Apparently, baring his soul to Dean as he used to, all those years ago, is now out of the question. “Or,” Gabe amends, “as fine as we  _ could  _ be, I guess. Our dad was a good guy, so…” He presses his lips together and seems to try to laugh, but it comes out strange and grated and so unconvincing that it’s cut short before its first syllable tumbles past the copper-haired man’s lips. “Well. Y’know. We loved him.” He looks down. “It sucks.”

Michael makes a noise of agreement and steps towards Dean to dry the things Dean has been washing.

“Eccentric, but good,” He chuckles. Dean’s lips twitch upwards, his eyes burning.

“He wasn’t eccentric,” Gabriel frowns.

“You say that because you’re eccentric, too,” Castiel rejoins. 

“You’re a writer, Cassie,” Gabriel frowns. “That’s like, the most eccentric profession  _ out  _ there.”

“What are you doing now, Dean?” Michael asks. “You still working in music?”

“Uh,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable. “If you can call it that,” He laughs, perhaps a little too honestly. “I had to give up my place at college, for some… reasons,” He swallows. Work. Depression. Getting enough money together for Sammy to go to law school. “And sort of… I started working at The Roadhouse, y’know, Ellen’s place? At the bar, waiting tables, that kind of thing. And giving music lessons to kids. Guitar, drums, piano, whatever. Then I enrolled at community college,” He flushes, deeper and harder than he thinks he ever has before, “which—y’know—” 

Mortified, he glances at Cas: Cambridge scholar, Castiel. Published author, Castiel. Graduated with a 1:1, Cas. Literary critic, Castiel. Master’s from University College London, Cas. Professor at Edinburgh University, Castiel Novak.

Needless to say, Dean’s been following Cas’s career pretty closely, even if he could never bring himself to  _ read  _ any of his ex-best friend’s books.

“Well,” He laughs, “I guess I was never like your brother,” He gestures to Castiel, whose eyes are dark and expression is unreadable, brow furrowed. “Or any of you,” He amends, still chuckling nervously. “But I graduated, and Lawrence High took me on as a music teacher, so now that’s my main… y’know.”

“Occupation?” Gabriel finishes for Dean, smirking.

“Yeah,” Dean nods.

“So you’re not writing music,” Michael frowns.

Dean flushes once more.

_ Actually, I wrote four pretty fucking heartbroken songs about your youngest brother, just this afternoon, but it’s whatever. _

“Not really,” Dean rubs his neck again. “I play at The Roadhouse, for, extra money, you know? But I don’t write my own stuff, so much, any more.”

“So much?” Castiel frowns. “What does that mean?”

Dean’s answer strains at his throat.

“Uh—”

“When do you play?” Gabriel asks, grinning.

“I’m playing tonight,” Dean just about manages to say.

“Tonight? We should go!”

Castiel shoots daggers at Gabriel. Dean doesn’t miss it.

“I play most weeknights,” He says. “Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays. Sometimes Fridays and Saturdays, if money is tight.”

“Why is money tight?”

“Gabriel!”

“What?”

Michael groans and rubs his face.

“Sammy’s counselling,” Dean rubs his hands awkwardly. “Mainly. It’s not cheap, and he’s… not great. Not happy, I mean. If you—I mean, that’s an understatement. He’s not employed, at the moment. Sort of…”

And fuck, Dean has started crying.

God.

Why couldn’t he have just died, nine years ago? And skipped all this shit? Not had to have lived it?

“Oh,” Hael takes Dean’s shoulders, squeezes softly. Michael has dropped his dishcloth, as though he thinks to hug Dean, but now he just stands awkwardly, staring, as though unsure of what to do.

“Shit…”

“ _ Gabriel!” _

Michael’s bark is near militaristic.

Dean tries to laugh the situation off.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” He laughs tearily. “ _ I’m  _ crying, like what the fuck is wrong with me—it’s  _ you guys  _ who should—”

Michael claps Dean’s shoulder.

“It’s fine.”

No, it’s fucking not.

“So you’re working two jobs, then?” Gabriel asks, apparently unphased. Dean appreciates it.

“Three,” He shakes his head. He sniffles. “Music at Lawrence High, teaching shit like the trumpet, guitar, and so on, to kids privately, and then performing at The Roadhouse.” He sniffs and swallows.

“You have  _ any  _ free time?”

Dean laughs.

No. No he doesn’t.

He says as much, which earns an awkward laugh from the group.

“Where’s your uncle Chuck?” Dean asks.

“Taking your brother home. He shouldn’t really—but like you said. Sammy was in a bit of a bad way.”

Oh.

Silence.

“I should get going,” Dean shakes his head. “I’ve been in you guys’s hair long enough, and I need to be in The Roadhouse in—” He glances up at the clock on the wall. Shit. “Forty minutes.”

“You okay for getting there?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Dean nods. “I’ve got the impala, outside Mary’s, so.”

“Cool. See you there?”

“You’re coming?” Dean asks Gabriel.

“Of course,” Gabriel grins.

“You’re not supposed to leave the house, Gabriel,” Castiel frowns.

“Cas, you’re only saying that because—”

“Because it’s  _ Shiva,  _ Gabriel, and it’s what dad would’ve wanted.”

“What dad would’ve wanted? He would’ve wanted you to support your best friend!”

“Dean is  _ not  _ my best friend!”

Well, shit.

It figures, and it shouldn’t be a surprise, but Dean’s lungs still fill with water and his eyes prickle with thousands of white-hot needles.

Everyone stares at Cas, then at Dean. Only Gabriel laughs. Michael hits him.

“Hey!”

“I should go,” Dean manages to choke out, half-humorously. “I’m sorry for—I won’t be stopping by, tomorrow, anyway. Sorry. I didn’t know about the Shiva thing—about you not leaving the house, I mean. I wouldn’t have asked, if I’d known. Sorry.”

“Dean—”

He leaves.

Needless to say, neither Gabriel, nor any other member of the Novak family, come to see Dean perform, that night. Or the night after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be from Cas's perspective! Please comment :)


	10. Won't Be Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, more sadness, but at least it comes in the form of another update! (And another piece of the puzzle)
> 
> I thought an update would be a nice festive gift! I hope everyone has had a lovely day today (with/without celebrations)
> 
> Next chapter ought to be up before the New Year! It'll also be from Cas's perspective, again, and will hopefully feature some comic relief in the form of Castiel's annoying family (i.e. Gabriel)
> 
> Happy reading!

 

**9 years, 6 months, 1 week, and 4 days earlier**

**(Saturday, April 7th, 2007)**

**(Dean and Cas are 18)**

 

Castiel has had too much to drink.  _ Way  _ too much, not the usual  _ I’m-kinda-wasted-but-I’m-with-Dean-so-it’s-cool  _ kind of too much, the  _ I’m-staggering-about-and-can’t-find-any-of-my-shit-and-where’s-Dean?  _ And  _ Dean-is-straight-Dean-is-straight- _ shit,  _ my-best-friend-is-straight-and-he-literally- _ confirmed _ -it-tonight-but-I’m-so-in-love-with-him-so-I-have-to-drink-away-my-pain  _ kind of too much. 

And, apparently, the horny kind of too much.

At least Castiel can say he’s  _ kissed  _ a boy, now. Instead of just admiring from afar, instead of just secretly adoring, Castiel has kissed a boy.

Should it hurt that it wasn’t Dean?

He stumbles up the stairs, after asking Meg where he will be able to find Dean. Charlie’s room, apparently.

Castiel wants to go home. Wants to be in Dean’s stupid, beautiful car with stupid, beautiful Dean, in the darkness, wants Dean to tell him that he  _ does  _ like Castiel in that way, even if he isn’t gay, or… whatever the hell it is that  _ Castiel  _ is.

He’d thought that tonight could be the night that he told Dean how he felt.

Or maybe the night where he’d kiss Dean.

What a joke.

Charlie’s room. Charlie’s room? On the left.

Wow. Cas really  _ has  _ drunk too much.

He stumbles to the door and swings it open.

Dimmed lights and two figures woven together.

Castiel blinks.

Then he chokes out a sob and bites down on it just as quickly.

Dean really  _ is  _ straight.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Dean mutters, pulling himself off Lisa. “Sorry, Cas,”

He looks mortified that Castiel has caught him and Lisa making out quite so passionately—Lisa’s legs are still wrapped around Dean’s body, Castiel’s eyes burn, Lisa glances up at him and offers a small smile which he can’t bring himself to return.

Dean’s pants are tented.

Cas knew this would happen, one day, he  _ must  _ have known, but—he never thought it’d hurt this much, honestly. And it  _ really  _ hurts.

A new and raw agony he never expected to feel. 

Is this what love feels like? Is this the sensation of a heart actually  _ breaking _ ?

He never had any chance with Dean. Why did he humour himself? Why did he entertain the idea that maybe, possibly, Castiel could have a shot at his own kind of perfect happiness, with his best friend in the whole world? And why did he think that his best friend might want that, too?

“I’m—” Castiel blinks, swallowing. The world still has the odd, hazy quality brought on by too much alcohol and too little water. His head hurts. “No, I’m sorry,” He shakes his head. “I—wanted to find you—”

“Oh?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows. He untangles himself from Lisa. “Why?”

_ I wanted to be kissing you. Not Samandriel,  _ you.  _ Always you. _

“I wanted to go home,” Castiel mumbles, looking down, mortified by the dashing of his own hopes, and rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes burn. Dean huffs out a breath, but Cas can’t see him. “Sorry—”

“Naw, it’s fine,” Dean shakes his head. He glances at Lisa. “Sorry, Lise,” He starts, smiling that lopsided, charming and slightly apologetic smile that has won Castiel over on countless occasions. “Raincheck?”

“No problem,” She shakes her head and smiles too, sweetly, big dark eyes glittering, flicking her ebony hair back, and no wonder Dean likes her. Castiel never had a chance. She’s  _ beautiful.  _ What is Castiel? “Call me?” She asks hopefully, and Dean grins a moment, humming, and bends down to kiss her again. Cas can actually  _ see  _ his tongue dipping into Lisa’s mouth. He retches at the door.

“Shit, buddy, you okay?” Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel. “You scared you’re gonna puke?”

Right now, Castiel is scared of a lot of things.

“Think I need to go home,” He murmurs, and Dean nods, expression sombre.

“That’s cool. I’ll take you. See you at school, Lise,” He gets up, waving goodbye to Lisa, who waves her delicate, golden hand back at him.

“And some other time, I hope,” She returns. Dean grins wolfishly. Castiel takes as quiet a gasping breath as he can. 

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. “I’ll call you.”

“I look forward to it.”

Castiel has started stumbling down the stairs of the house. He can’t stand to be in the same room as Dean and Lisa, any longer.

“Dude,” Dean sighs, jumping after him and bracing him. “Slow down. No rush, I’m comin’.”

“Yeah,” Castiel manages to grate out. “Sorry. Thank you.”

Straight. Dean straight-as-an-arrow Winchester. Castiel’s best friend and fourteen-year-crush is straight.

“It’s no problem, Cas,” Dean replies. “You got everything?”

“I can’t find my bag,” Castiel confesses, eyes burning, as they reach the bottom of the stairs. Suddenly, it seems as though they’ve stepped right back into the vibrant motion of the teenage world they both inhabit; it basks in the orange and yellow lighting of Charlie’s house; music throbs and pulses through their surroundings as though it is alive; teens dance and chatter and bustle all around them and seem to create a language of their own in Castiel’s ears.

“Well, you had it when we arrived,” Dean frowns. “It can’t have gone far.”

Castiel sighs defeatedly.

Through each of his drunken limbs, sadness is unfurling itself.

This is the sadness that made him kiss Samandriel in the first place, the sadness that swallowed every cell and nerve and fibre in his body when Dean brushed off Charlie’s suggestion of hooking up with Aaron, confirming he was straight, only this sadness is deeper, richer, paler, colder.

“Dude,” Dean forces out a chuckle and Castiel recognises it to be unnatural the moment it is formed on Dean’s lips. “It’s okay, we’ll find it.”

He turns and enters the living room, scanning each corner.

“You were sat there, weren’t you?” Dean points over to the corner Castiel had settled in with Samandriel straddling him.

Oh,  _ shit. _

Did Dean see? Does Dean  _ know? _

Castiel shrugs and looks away. Dean sighs.

“Castiel,” Samandriel bounces towards him. Castiel glances up, terrified. “Are you going? You left so suddenly.”

“Yes, sorry,” Castiel rubs the back of his neck. “I—”

Samandriel shrugs and smiles, leaning forward on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Castiel’s lips.

Castiel could die.

He glances at Dean, whose expression is unreadable, who stares for a moment before tearing his gaze away with a frown and a glare at the ground.

Castiel could  _ die. _

He hasn’t told Dean he even  _ likes  _ guys, and here he is, kissing one of the cutest boys in their grade goodbye.

What must Dean think of him?

It breaks Castiel’s heart, but, being realistic, and knowing Dean and his hypermasculinity, his womanising and sporty, beer-drinking, car-fixing nature, he’ll hate what Castiel is, hate Castiel for his sexuality.

And that  _ hurts,  _ hurts in big stinging waves of melancholy that wash over Castiel and make him retch. The whole time, since the moment he realised that he was attracted to men, Castiel has known that to tell Dean would mean to risk their friendship.

And in the end, he didn’t even get to tell Dean; Dean, Castiel’s closest friend of well over a decade, has found out that Castiel is attracted to men because of a drunken mistake Castiel made to get over the hurt of Dean practically confessing his  _ hetero _ sexuality.

What a mess.

“Call me?” Samandriel asks, smiling and raising his eyebrows at Castiel so that his already innocent face is borderline adorable. Castiel smiles distractedly, still feeling ill, and nods, nauseous at the look he sees Dean wearing in his peripherals.

“Of course,” Castiel confirms. “I’ll see you…”

“Monday,” Samandriel finishes for him, quite helpfully. “In Math class. Remember?”

“Of course,” Castiel repeats, feigning the same, nauseated smile. “I look forward to it.”

Dean seems to be growing tired of waiting. He glares at the ground and Castiel watches as a muscle in his jaw twitches, in little, jolting spasms of disapproval. Castiel never thought rejection would hurt so much.

“Should we…?” He turns to Dean and trails off, his heart breaking in the darkening cave that has become his chest, even as he speaks.

“Sure,” Dean nods, curtly, looking away and turning to the door before Castiel is given the opportunity to examine his expression any further.—Not that he needs to: Dean’s actions thus far tonight have made his thoughts on Castiel, and people like Castiel, perfectly clear.

Now a rift, gaping and hollowed and sour with resentment, has cracked open between them, and grows larger by the minute.

Dean opens the front door and steps outside the house without a second glance back at Castiel.

Castiel shuffles after him, dragging his feet, face burning with shame.

He climbs into the Impala and has to brace his head between his knees, a wave of nausea washing over him.

“Woah,” Dean frowns, killing the engine as quickly as he started it. “Hey, buddy, you afraid you’re gonna puke?”

Buddy.

Buddy. And nothing else. Nothing more. Castiel’s eyes wring out tears without him even realising it.

“Cas,” Dean frowns, apparently noting the tears, panic lingering in his throat, surging through the fingers on Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel wants them to stay there forever, in a desperate, earnest, raw kind of way wants them to stay and never leave, wants Dean to feel the same way Castiel does for him, but all that’s… useless. Useless, now.

“M’fine,” Castiel brushes Dean’s concerned hands off himself, shrinking backwards. “M’fine,” He says again. “Just… take me home. Please?”

Dean nods and starts up the car again. He begins to drive in silence.

It’s stifling, it clumps itself around Castiel and makes him shrink further into his seat out of embarrassment, worry and regret and loneliness biting at his heart.

Dean knows that Castiel likes guys; when Castiel hasn’t been able to tell  _ anyone  _ in his life so far, not even his own father. And Dean  _ still  _ hasn’t reacted to it, only glares at the road, jaw clenched, knuckles white with the grip he has on the steering wheel.

“Do you hate me?” He asks, gazing into the burning green eyes of his best friend, turned-crush, and possibly unrequited soulmate.

“What?” Dean continues frowning; it does nothing to soothe the bubbling worry deep in Castiel’s soul. The darkening sky outside the Impala seems not intimate in the way it did on the journey to Charlie’s, where Castiel had allowed himself to get caught up in the bright simmer of possibilities of the night; the possibility that he might tell Dean all that he felt and have Dean return those feelings—instead, the sky is gloomy and heavy, now, fills Castiel with a sense of foreboding for a kind of unavoidable, incomprehensible storm to come.

Maybe that’s just his drunkenness. 

“I don’t hate you, Cas,” Dean frowns. “Why would I hate you?”

“Then why are you acting weird?” Castiel asks, expression coming to mirror that of Dean’s with a strange, coiled, worming motion that comes over him as suddenly as his feelings of regret and anxiety are overcome by defensiveness and the bitter seed of scorn.

“Acting weird?” Dean repeats. “I could ask the same of you, y’know.”

Castiel shrinks into his seat again.

His heart breaks a little more.

This isn’t how he imagined the night of his first real kiss with a guy to go, not at all.

He is homesick for a dream he never reached, heartbroken for a love he never even lost, let alone gained.

All the tranquility and familiarity of their ride together to the party has dissipated, now the atmosphere inside the Impala is stale, unforgiving, unfriendly.

“So you’re disgusted with me?” He asks, voice filled with more worry than he knew he felt. “You think it’s wrong? You  _ do  _ hate me?”

_ “Cas,”  _ Dean’s frown grows heavier, brow furrowing about half an inch lower than it was already, if that could even be possible.

“I know you saw,” Castiel states. “But whatever you think of me—”

“What do you think of  _ me,  _ Cas?” Dean asks, glaring. Castiel shifts and stares out the window, unable to maintain his friend’s gaze. “Castiel,” Dean presses, firmly. “This…” He pulls the car to side of the road and stills it to a stop. “This doesn’t change anything,” He says, voice low and quiet and rough. Castiel glances up at him, the movement gradual and shy. His heart still hurts, for whatever reason, and he isn’t able to decipher the cause of his melancholy, now. “You being…” Dean gestures to Castiel, obviously uncomfortable. “I mean, why should it change anything?”

“Then why’re you acting weird?”

“I’m not…” Dean attempts to protest frowning, but Castiel doesn’t buy into it, only glares back at his friend, still terrified. “I just thought you were—y’know, you’re Jewish, aren’t you Cas? I thought you couldn’t be—I mean,  _ any  _ kind of religious, and—” He looks down, face obviously red even in the dimmed light of the inside of the Impala. 

Clearly, talking about sexuality is embarrassing to Dean, which shouldn’t be a surprise, considering his blatant straightness.

“You can be religious and be gay, Dean,” Castiel squints, inclining his head to the side, lips parted. Dean’s gaze flickers over to him and shifts into something new, shrouded by the dark and Dean’s own internal barriers, against even Castiel, it would seem.

“I guess I never…” Dean trails off. His voice cracks, though Castiel doesn’t understand why. He looks down a moment, fumbling with his hands, before returning his jade gaze to Castiel’s own. “So that’s what you are then?” Dean asks. “Gay?”

Castiel turns away again and shrugs.

“I don’t really…” He considers the identity a moment. It doesn’t fit him wholly; nor does ‘straight’, at all; but nor does  _ anything _ . “I don’t really know,” He confesses. “Bisexual, maybe? I suppose I just like  _ people _ .”

“Me—” Dean cuts himself off. A brightness Castiel caught in his eyes is extinguished as soon as it was sparked into life and Castiel watches as Dean’s expression falls, as the boy retreats back inside himself, and falters. He looks suddenly ashamed and embarrassed and upset. What had he been going to say? “It doesn’t change anything,” Dean repeats, instead of continuing. “I mean—maybe you won’t want to sleep over with me anymore, ‘cause—”

“You don’t want to sleep with me anymore?” Castiel asks, then flushes furiously as he realises how it is he phrased that sentence, how terribly it came out. Dean does the same, face turning a bright burning red, and Castiel hurts at the knowledge that Dean is so disgusted at the thought of  _ actually sleeping- _ sleeping with Castiel. “I mean—” He tries to correct, sputtering, but Dean shakes his head and speaks over him.

“I just thought with you and Samandriel—maybe Samandriel wouldn’t be cool with it, or something? It’s not that I’m disgusted by it, or anything, or that I think anything would happen—”

“Why would anything happen?” Castiel frowns. “And why wouldn’t Samandriel be cool with it? I mean, there’s no danger. You’re straight, aren’t you?”

Dean looks down.

“Right, yeah,” He confesses. “As they come,” He smiles awkwardly, voice weak. “Bet you’re heartbroken about that one, huh, Cas?” He jokes, grinning lopsidedly, something about it forced and insincere. Apparently he can’t joke about this kind of thing with Castiel now that he knows that his best friend actually  _ does  _ swing that way, and it isn’t all fun and play, isn’t only to tease.

Now those jokes bear weight and meaning beyond what Dean must’ve ever imagined.

In any case, the joke chips away at the remnants of Castiel’s heart still more, grinding them up like pieces of broken glass until they feel like a fine, crystal dust, cutting minute wounds inside the cave of Castiel’s chest.

“And Samandriel and I aren’t dating,” Castiel swallows, continuing. “We only kissed.”

“Seems as though you did a lot more than just that,” Dean counters, frowning unhappily again.

Castiel glares at his friend.

“Take me home, Dean.”

Dean falters at Castiel’s tone, jade eyes flickering with disbelief.

“Cas, c’mon, you know I didn’t mean it like that—”

“And  _ you’re  _ the one who was dry humping Lisa Braeden like a bitch in heat—”

“Hey. Don’t call her that,” Dean glowers, expression turning hard and defensive.

It breaks Castiel that this instinctive defensiveness isn’t something that Dean feels towards  _ him. _

“I wasn’t saying it about  _ her _ ,” Castiel folds his arms, lip curling, rolling his eyes as he turns away from Dean.

In the journey so far, he’d near enough forgotten how drunk he was, but he remembers it at what Dean says next.

“Get out my car.”

Castiel turns back to see Dean’s emerald eyes, usually warm and amiable, now fiercely serious and icy cold as the gems they so resemble.

“Dean—”

“I’m not kidding,” Dean’s lip curls, as Castiel’s did earlier, “get out my car.”

“How will I—”

“Walk, run, crawl, I don’t give a shit,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Just stop being an asshole—”

“ _ I’m  _ being an asshole?!”

“Yes!” Dean shouts. Then he sighs, getting out of his side of the car and striding over to the passenger side, wrenching open Castiel’s door. “Get out.”

“Dean—” Castiel attempts to look up at his friend, but in the next instant is vomiting on the ground.

He tumbles out of the Impala and hits his head on the curb.

Dean swears above him and in the next instant Castiel is sat up, cool hands are pressing at his too-hot head, watery, concerned emeralds peep at him from behind thick, brown, damp lashes—and is Dean crying? Why is Dean crying?

“Can you hear me? Cas?”

Castiel makes a noise of confirmation and pushes Dean away.

“I’m  _ fine—” _

“I’m so sorry, Cas,” Dean shakes his head. “I was being a dick, I’ll drive you home—you’re not bleeding, but please let Jimmy look you over—I’m sorry, buddy—”

“I’m fine,” Castiel repeats, shaking his head. He blinks confusedly in the cool night air. “I… fell?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. “It was my fault, I’m sorry, Cas—”

Castiel shakes his head again.

“I was rude.”

“No you weren’t—”

Castiel laughs drunkenly and hiccups. Dean’s expression softens.

“I was rude,” He repeats. “I was feeling…”

Heartbroken.

Depressed.

Hopeless.

“...Embarrassed…”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed by your sexuality, Cas,” Dean says, gently. Castiel sighs.

“You’re great, Dean.”

Dean snorts. It sounds somewhat bitter.

“I mean it,” Castiel presses. He can’t make out Dean’s expression.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel says yet again. 

He looks up at Dean. 

Up to the beautiful eyes framed by beautiful, thick, delicate eyelashes that have been his home for near fourteen years. 

The night seems to still around them, still itself to a glittering silence, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think that this was a moment, a glimmering crushed diamond of a moment in which the stars trembled as they looked on, in which all regrets and wounds would disappear, heal, in a moment of unbroken, perfect silence. 

But Castiel knows better, and the moment ends, and the stars shift their gaze away to look onto some more interesting subjects.

“I hope you and Lisa had a good night,” Castiel manages to rasp out, utterly heartbroken. Dean’s expression falls. It seems he can’t even talk about  _ girls  _ with Castiel, after finding out that Castiel likes men. “She’s… very pretty. I didn’t mean what I said. You two would make a good couple… You should go for that, you know?”

Dean swallows and feigns a smile, probably to cover up his lingering disgust at Castiel’s identity.

“Yeah…” The response is slow and thoughtful, deliberated in the cool darkness surrounding them. The stars glimmering overhead seem, for the first time in Castiel’s life, utterly dispassionate observers to the affairs of men, where he had once adored to deify them to the point of absurdity, to imagine that the stars looked down upon the earth with an endeared kind of fascination. 

Castiel must be making a very poor subject for them, right now; all broken and drunken and despondent and sitting on the curb of an empty road under flickering, uncertain amber streetlights. 

“She’s uh…” Dean swallows. “Great. You’re right. Totally. I’ll go for it, like you said,” Dean forces a smile again. It doesn’t nearly reach his now distant moss-coloured eyes. “Why shouldn’t I?” He asks, laughing unconvincingly. “She’s great. Why shouldn’t I?” He repeats. Castiel frowns. Dean looks down, sighs. “She’s great.” He smiles again, shrugging. “And I’ve got no reason  _ not  _ to date her, right?” He asks. “Right?” He repeats.

What’s Dean looking for, here?

Castiel’s heart has nothing left to give, it aches so much.

“Right,” He agrees, utterly insincere, broken in a way that he never has been before.

He wants to go home.

He wants his best friend to be in love with him, too.

Dean drives him home. But Dean still doesn’t love him back. And Castiel should know better than to ask so much.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And please comment with any feedback :) Thanks to everyone who's been leaving comments so far, you guys are so lovely and honestly 90% of what motivates me!
> 
> Sorry to leave with such a sad chapter today - remember the happy ending!


	11. This House, Holding Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I just got this edited and have a massive flight tomorrow and am going out this even so now would be an amazing time to pack/get ready. I hope everyone's 2017 is happy and productive and peaceful and that you all had/have a great start to it, whatever your celebrations might entail!
> 
> I'm really not sure when my next update(s) will be coming, (for any of my stories) but hopefully soon!
> 
> As for this chapter, it's also from Cas's POV, as will be the next chapter and the chapter following that. Next chapter will be much happier than this one, I promise!

 

Chapter 11

 

“So I saw Dean at the funeral,” Michael leans across Gabriel to speak to Castiel, bright eyes dulled by the solemnity of the occasion, yet intensified by a sombre, earnest curiosity. They dance and spark despite their steady, constant focus on Castiel’s face.

Castiel stares at his brother, but Michael doesn’t say any more, only gazes back at Castiel as though he expects his brother to burst into tears or shout and storm out of the room like an angsty teenager. Castiel dislikes having his reaction gauged in this way, dislikes Michael’s calculating gaze on his face, dislikes the fact that Michael uses this time, this precious time intentionally set aside, to speak of a facet of Castiel’s past that he has long since buried; rather than of their father, their beloved father and guardian.

“Fascinating,” Castiel deadpans eventually, when Michael refuses to give up the steady look he has fixed upon his younger brother.

Gabriel, previously lost in thought, strange and withdrawn, next to Castiel, flickers his gaze over to join the interaction.

“Dean?” He repeats. “As in, Dean  _ Winchester?” _

Castiel rolls his eyes and looks away, swallowing thickly.

The past is better left buried, untouched, ready to rot and decay. On the day that they buried their own father, Michael and Gabriel want to pull the corpse of Castiel’s past out of the ground and animate it back to life.

That isn’t going to happen.

Castiel has carved out a new world for himself, a world admittedly an entire continent away from where he sits now, but he is happy in it. As happy as he can get, able to find peace in solitude and reading and writing and teaching young, passionate minds, watching them blossom and flourish under his care. Literature is his passion, now, and Dean Winchester isn’t. So why bring him up?

“Dean Winchester,” Michael confirms, still staring at Castiel. Gabriel turns to gaze intently at his younger brother, also. Castiel ignores both of them.

“Aren’t we supposed to be talking about dad, now?” Castiel asks. “Isn’t that what this time is for?”

“Castiel—” Michael sighs, but Gabriel speaks over him.

“Sure, we can talk about dad,” He confirms. “I’d love to.”

“Good.”

“Remember how dad taught Dean the piano? Until Dean was so good he could play any song you asked of him by heart?”

“Gabriel—” Castiel’s eyes well up with tears so sudden and unexpected that they choke him.

“‘Cause I remember that,” Gabriel smiles, something in his eyes growing distant again. “I remember every time I came back from college, how Dean would  _ always  _ be round here, playing. Or you’d be at his house,” He gestures to Castiel. “And dad would make banana muffins, and we’d all sit in the kitchen and eat them, and Dean could eat, like,  _ twelve  _ in one sitting—”

_ “Gabriel—” _

“Remember that time Dean broke half the plates we own ‘cause you and him were playing catch in the kitchen? And he was shitting himself for how dad would react, but dad just found it  _ so funny?  _ Or what about when—”

“Gabriel,” Chuck leans in, frowning. “I don’t think this is especially useful.”

Castiel looks down, shooting his uncle a short-lived, though grateful glance. Chuck presses his lips together and offers a small smile.

Gabriel huffs childishly and looks away. He returns to his previously withdrawn character, the air between himself and his younger brother turning stale with the dispassion and shock of a sudden loss.

“Remember when Castiel got published?” Chuck presses, kind eyes flickering softly. “Remember how your dad reacted?”

Castiel stares at the ground and lets out a teary laugh, despite himself.

_ “Let’s take a family trip to England!”  _ Castiel mimics. Gabriel snorts next to him.  _ “And celebrate with Cassie!” _

“Most spontaneous holiday  _ ever,”  _ Amara comments, smile wry albeit gentle. Gabriel huffs softly.

“Yeah,” He agrees. “Remember when he found out I was directing pornos?”

_ “Gabriel—”  _ Michael groans. Castiel smirks and avoids his oldest brother’s gaze.

_ “My son is a pervert! Gabriel, I raised you better than this!”  _ Gabriel grins, mimicking their father’s tone. “Damn, that was a funny conversation. And it proved that for all his talk, he wasn’t  _ that  _ liberal—”

“I guess there’s a difference between being cool with your son liking men and your son filming people fuc—”

“Castiel!”

“Michael!” Castiel exclaims back at his brother. Michael glares.

“It’s an art form,” Gabriel states matter-of-factly. “Porn is art.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

“You don’t watch it?  _ Seriously?” _

“Gabriel—”

“How do you do that? Do you get laid every night?  _ Everyone  _ watches porn, Cassie—”

“I can’t tell you how inappropriate this is, Gabriel—”

“I object to porn on a moral basis, actually—”

“You sound just like Michael,” Gabriel rolls his eyes, leaning back on his uncomfortable chair.

“I think Michael would probably object on a religious one?” Castiel raises his eyebrows over to his oldest brother to gain confirmation of this, but apparently Michael is too uncomfortable to either confirm or deny this.

“And yours is a what, feminist one?” Gabriel asks. “Porn can be feminist! Just ‘cause you wrote that book—”

“I didn’t write a book on women in porn, I wrote a book about women in  _ Literature— _ ”

“Both art forms,” Gabriel points out.

“Again, I’d beg to differ.”

“Well, I’d like to think dad saw things from my point of view, eventually.”

“Fuck, I hope he didn’t.”

“Castiel, don’t curse.”

“Gabriel’s discussing  _ porn—” _

“I’m discussing my  _ job,  _ and how dad reacted to it.”

“I think it was a good thing he was shocked,” Castiel crosses his arms. “I think any responsible parent ought to be shocked when their child tells them they’re going into that kind of industry.”

“You’re so conservative, Cassie, I can’t believe you.”

“It’s not conservatism,” Castiel shakes his head. “It’s common sense.”

The front door opens and the sound echoes down the hall. In the next instant, Daniel, Mara and Muriel, who carries Beth, have entered the living room, Muriel handing little Beth to Daniel and bending to hug Castiel tightly.

“I’m so sorry, cousin,” She says. One of Castiel’s kindest cousins, he isn’t exactly sure of what to say in response, only hooks his chin over her shoulder and blinks through his tears as he thanks her for coming. She hugs Michael and Gabriel too, then Chuck, before kissing her mother, Amara’s cheek, and taking Beth back off Daniel.

Anna, Tessa and Rachel enter a little later. Castiel finds himself struggling not to be distant and wishes that it wasn’t  _ him  _ that was required to set the pace of conversation with his other relatives.

Cousins, extended family, distant great-aunts, family friends, Jimmy’s friends, and even Jimmy’s colleagues arrive.

But Castiel’s eyes remain fixed on the door of the pretty green house across the street. The front door is in clear view from where he sits in the living room of his own home, staring out the large windows. But the front door of the green house, inhabited by the boy—now man—with green eyes, remains staunchly closed.

Castiel looks away.

Why should he care? All those years, and not once has Dean reached out to him since Castiel moved to England. Alone in a foreign country, Castiel had  _ no one,  _ not even his best friend, to turn to.

His only solace had been his father, and the extended phone calls they’d had, and the visits home, and his father’s visits to England, had been Castiel’s comfort in times of bitter melancholy and loneliness—and now Jimmy Novak is dead.

Someone taps his shoulder and distracts him from the as yet unescaped tears pressing at his eyes.

“Castiel, can I get you anything to eat?”

It’s Anna.

Castiel smiles weakly and shakes his head.

“No, thank you, Anna.”

“Have you eaten  _ anything  _ today? Please, Cassie.”

“I’m not hungry,” Castiel says, looking down at his hands. They seem older than he remembers. And yet, it seems so unfair that Jimmy died when Castiel was so young. 

Twenty-eight. That’s no age to be attending your own father’s funeral.

Castiel thinks of his mother’s death, of the cocktail of pills she had taken, of how Jimmy had cried silently for days straight, still caring for all his children with a passion and devotion unrivalled in a parents, just unable to stop his own tears. Of how he’d told everyone in their new town that she’d died in a car crash so that people wouldn’t treat Castiel differently, as they had in his old home.

Today isn’t Castiel’s first day of sitting Shiva. But the last time he sat it, his father had held his hand the whole way through and told him to cry as much as he liked. Now Castiel has no one to tell him that his tears are allowed.

“Castiel,” Anna says softly. But he shakes his head in response.

“I’m fine, thank you, Anna.”

Well, the fine part certainly isn’t true.

Castiel is terrible.

He thinks of how it must have broken Jimmy to see his wife battle depression for so long and be unable to help, despite his being a therapist. Castiel wonders if some people are unsavable, if there are some battles even the kindest of words or strongest of pills can’t win.

But Jimmy had taken his sadness and turned it into beauty, used it to empathise more, reach out more, do more, love more. He had taken Castiel and Gabriel and Michael away from their scathing congregation and those family members who couldn’t stand what Amelia had done, who said that it was her fault, as if a person could help their own depression, and had moved them to a new congregation, a new town, a new city, a new state. 

Jimmy had embraced the shattered remnants of his past and built a home from them, used them and the love in his heart and his hope for the future and had built a new home for his family, a beautiful, real home in which Castiel had found such peace and contentment that rid of it now, his soul ached with loss.

How had Jimmy done it? Taken his heartbreak and formed it into something both old and new and honestly, truly happy? And how could Castiel do the same?

He looks up to see the door of the green house opening. His heart rises into his throat, and then sinks just as quickly.

Mary, Sammy. No Dean.

No Dean.

Well, it figures.

Castiel’s head starts throbbing and people’s conversation sounds garbled in his ears. Uncle Chuck glances over to him, concerned, and asks if he needs to eat, but Castiel  _ can’t.  _ The thought of doing so makes him feel ill.

He wants his sorrows to become strangers to him again, wants his father to be home, wants to open the door to Jimmy’s study with a cup of green tea and see his dad working at his computer, glasses balanced on his nose, smiling as soon as he catches Castiel’s reflection in the monitor. He wants his father back and cannot accept the fact that Jimmy is gone.

He rubs at his eyes frustratedly.

Joshua, one of his father’s closest friends, gives Castiel a genuine, warm hug that would take Castiel by surprise by how zoned-out he is, if it weren’t so comforting. As it is, it nearly kills him with how gentle and earnest it is.

He manages to talk for a while about Jimmy and his tidy hair and surprisingly amazing cooking—and how Castiel hasn’t taken after his father in either of these respects, and Castiel finds himself laughing tearily and Joshua places a gentle hand on Castiel’s shoulder and says how proud of him Jimmy was and how he’d always be talking about his published author of a son, and Castiel has to look down to stop crying.

And after the burning purity of this interaction, Castiel finds himself loathing anyone else who tries to speak to him. He’s exhausted, exhausted with sorrow, exhausted by the insincerity of many of those who try to speak to him; Jimmy’s colleagues who seem totally alien to this method of grieving and stand about, sit around, uncomfortable, and talk to Castiel in a patronising tone of voice and say all the wrong things.

Dean was right when he complained about how shitty most therapists were.

“Sam is here,” Gabriel frowns out at the room, mumbling the words to Castiel, who sighs and turns away from his brother. “And so’s Mary. So where’s Dean?”

“Well,” Castiel pretends to frown thoughtfully, “maybe we’re just  _ not  _ that close any more, Gabriel. Have you ever considered that?”

“Bullshit,” Gabriel snorts. “You two were—”

“What’re you guys talking about?”

“Nothing, Michael.”

“Dean,” Gabriel says, matter-of-factly.

“Still?” Michael frowns.

“No,” Castiel sighs, shaking his head wearily, but Gabriel interrupts him.

“Yeah, Cassie won’t shut up about him, it’s like he’s sixteen again— _ ow!” _

Castiel has kicked his brother sharply.

“You deserved that.”

“Castiel, don’t kick your brother,” Michael sighs, speaking as though he’s twenty years older than Castiel and is his legal guardian rather than his sibling.

“Don’t tell me what to do—”

“This is my favourite thing about shiva,” Chuck says conversationally to Amara, next to him, and Isaac Bass, in front of him. “ _ Any  _ family tensions and you’ll be at each other’s throats for at least half of the seven days you have to spend together. Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Isaac chuckles and shakes his head. Gabriel dutifully pipes down.

“At least that’s how it feels in  _ our  _ family,” Amara interjects, smiling almost wistfully. “Remember our grandma’s funeral?”

“Where we were literally at each other’s throats?”

“That’s the one.”

“How could I forget?” Chuck shakes his head. He turns to Isaac again. “Jimmy was the  _ only  _ thing stopping us from murdering each other.”

“We didn’t get along,” Amara rolls her eyes, smiling.

“And Jimmy was always the peacemaker.”

“I bet he was,” Isaac smiles kindly. Castiel’s eyes are pricked with tears.

He gets up stiffly. Michael calls after him, voice soft so as not to cause a scene, but Castiel ignores his oldest brother. He needs a drink. Something strong. Preferably bleach.

Muffled voices from the kitchen.

_ “They smell good. Cassie always used to talk about what a good chef you were.” _

Is that Anna, speaking?

“Cassie,” Michael appears at the door of the living room and stops his brother. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Castiel looks down. “I’m getting a drink. It’s all a bit—”

“I’m sorry if Gabriel was annoying you—”

“It wasn’t that,” Castiel shakes his head, glancing over to Chuck and Amara, still speaking with Isaac. He can see a distance in his uncle’s eyes and wonders how strange it must be to have a three of siblings be reduced to two. He thinks how strange it would be if one of  _ his  _ siblings died, and aches a little more in empathy for his aunt and uncle.

It’s as though children, siblings, form a picture together, even into adulthood, a picture of their parents and their upbringing, of the meals their mother used to make for them or the stories their father used to tell, and the moment a part of that family dies, the picture is incomplete. Fractured.

Fractured, Castiel decides, is an appropriate word. Appropriate for everything. Appropriate for how he feels without his beloved father, his guiding hand, his comforter.

Jimmy was a good man. A brilliant man. A man who encouraged Castiel’s eccentricities perhaps a little too far, but apart from that, had done near nothing wrong in all his years on this green earth.

“Okay,” Michael’s hand slides onto Castiel’s shoulder. He squeezes a moment. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

Michael goes and sits down again.

Castiel turns back to the kitchen and can see Anna’s brilliant red hair and her head turned to stare earnestly at someone; but the door blocks his view and he cannot see who it is.

“I don’t know.”

Castiel knows that voice.

Rough and fascinating and somehow both emotive and withdrawn, closed off to the world.

Castiel  _ knows  _ that voice.

Nine years.

Nine years of not hearing it.

Castiel steps into the doorway.

“Maybe I should leave—” The previously disembodied voice says. But now Castiel can see its owner, can see the soft, chapped, rose-coloured lips that formed these words, can see the reluctantly earnest eyes of their owner, his thick sandy-brown hair combed neatly for the occasion, the slope of his muscled shoulders and his awkward bow-legs. Castiel can see  _ Dean. _

And Dean wants to leave.

Castiel had been convinced Dean wasn’t even  _ coming.  _ And now he wants to leave.

Turning, Dean spots Castiel, and making eye-contact with him seems to wash away those nine years of isolation and forgetting and pain and healing in no more than an instant, like waves of a soft-sanded beach.

And then all those nine years come back at the mortified look in Dean’s eyes; and Castiel is no longer eighteen, but reminded of when he was, of when he loved his best friend more than he could say and when his best friend felt nothing along a similar vein towards Castiel in return.

Apparently, your best friend being in love with you is  _ not  _ cute or quirky or beautiful when you are a boy and your best friend is a boy. At least, that’s how Dean seemed to think.

Looking at Castiel now must be strange for Dean, wondering where it is they stand, being totally uncertain. But Castiel knows where they stand: given the choice, he would never speak to, or see Dean Winchester again. He would forget the past, forget the heartache, and trudge on in his dreary life, unwavering from between the lines of relative contentment and gnawing dissatisfaction. 

That’s what his life has become. Except now, the lines of contentment and dissatisfaction must be navigated minus his father.

Dean doesn’t say anything, only stares at Castiel like he couldn’t possibly be more uncomfortable, and honestly, could Dean  _ be  _ any more straight?! Despite all his pretences of tolerance, Castiel could recognise both disgust and disappointment in Dean’s eyes when Samandriel kissed Castiel goodbye at Charlie’s party all those years ago.

“Dean brought cookies,” Anna says, breaking the silence between Dean and Castiel. Castiel hadn’t wanted to speak. Dean apparently hadn’t been able to.

She holds up one of the plates helpfully, and Castiel’s gaze flickers over to it, ripping off Dean’s body.

Cookies?

Something like a wave of nostalgia washes over Castiel and floods into his lungs, bitter with salt.

No, wait. Those are his tears.

He can’t help be reminded of it, be reminded of the first day he met the beautiful boy across the street, with eyes the colour of grass after a summer rain, with crooked teeth that would come to be fixed with braces that Dean would complain about every day for two years, with a mess of freckles scattered across his face as randomly and enchantingly as the stars in the sky, be reminded of the cookies he brought over and the games they played, how shy and terrified Castiel had felt, and then suddenly as though he were returning home, or sliding into warm, soft waters.

Something rises in Castiel’s chest, a crescendo of noise and feeling that fills him completely, unfurling through his limbs and toes and fingertips, and then it dies just as quickly, and the suddenness of its withdrawal threatens to have Castiel’s knees giving out.

He stares at Dean.

“I thought you weren’t coming…”

He thought Dean would never come, thought Dean couldn’t stand to have a male friend who had, once, liked him—loved him, loved him with all his heart. He thought he’d never see Dean again, hoped he’d never have to, and yet… Now he stands in the kitchen of his old home, his childhood home, and Dean stands there too, as though no time has passed, as though Jimmy could be in the living room watching his documentaries or reading a book, or in his study working, or in the garden tending to his roses.

A lost love, and a lost father. One here, now, the other gone.

Dean can’t seem to answer Castiel’s question, as though he can tell what his once-best friend is thinking of, as though he can read all the frustration and confusion and anguish in Castiel’s heart at the thought of what he and Dean once shared, and how it is Dean could share so much with someone who apparently meant so little to him.

“I—”

This vowel sound, in particular, keeps forming in Dean’s throat, and once upon a time, Castiel is sure he’d have found it comic. Now he just finds it tedious.

Finally, Dean manages to speak English:

“Hey, Cas.”

Nine years. Nine years following a rejection that all but destroyed Castiel, and this is all Dean can bring himself to say.

Is he drunk, or something?

Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise Castiel.

Nine years. And apparently the fourteen years preceding that mean nothing to Dean.

Or maybe not.

_Hey, Cas,_ was their greeting—or rather, _Dean’s_ greeting, for so long. It’s familiar and it hurts and of course Dean knows nothing about shiva so has no idea that this isn’t how one ought to greet those mourning, and Castiel grows angry again. That Dean can cease contact with Castiel after the kinship they shared is one thing; that he can return on the day of Castiel’s _father’s_ funeral and act as though no time has passed, as though they are both eighteen and there has been no hurt between them—or rather, that Castiel’s hurt doesn’t _matter—_ is nearly outrageous to Castiel.

Nine years.

He bites down on his fury and bitterness. 

“Can I get a drink?”

“Sure,” Anna frowns, glancing worriedly between Dean and Castiel.  _ Please don’t say anything,  _ Castiel silently pleas with his cousin, through expression alone.  _ Don’t ask what’s wrong. Don’t ask what’s happened.  _ “What can I get you?”

He nearly slumps with relief.

Dean can’t seem to look at either of them.

Which isn’t a surprise.

“A scotch?” Castiel only just manages to half-joke. Hopelessness floods the cage of his chest. Dean continues to stare at him. “Water, thank you.” Castiel amends his joke to a serious request. “Or—tea?”

“No problem,” Anna offers her cousin a small smile. Castiel lets it comfort him in this time of absolute despondency and sorrow. “Green? Mint?”

“Green,” Castiel answers. Then he sniffs, looking down. He can make out Dean’s body shifting in his peripherals, communicating the extent of the green eyed man’s feelings of awkwardness.

He shifts again as though he is about to leave.

“So I thought you weren’t coming,” Castiel says, managing to look back up into that jade gaze. Dean balls his hands uncomfortably and stuffs them into his pockets, clearly self-conscious.

Even in Dean’s balled fists, his body still twitch marginally, as though this is the most mortifying experience of his life, as though he wishes he could be a thousand miles away from here.

Dean has aged. Of course has; he’s twenty-seven, now, turning twenty eight in January, certainly no longer a teenager and nearing the end of his being a young man; and if Jimmy’s stories are anything to go by, the years since Castiel last saw Dean haven’t been especially kind to him.

Laugh lines. Worry lines. A little stubble. A defined jaw somehow both soft and masculine. A worried expression. Features sloping in sorrow. Something distant in those now unfamiliar, though perfectly familiar, if Castiel is honest, green eyes.

Something in Dean’s gaze has the same kind of quality as a scared animal peering at a hunter, or standing trapped in a burning forest.

Dean obviously hasn’t been sleeping, eyes a little bloodshot, spidery veins creeping across the surface of his sclera, dark blue-purple shapes under his eyes, above his cheekbones. Castiel wants to be critical and dismissive of Dean and his appearance, wants to think harshly on it and how Dean has aged, but… Well. He can’t.

Dean is beautiful. Still. Green, glittering eyes and thick brown eyelashes. Skin a little pale, and freckled, something warm in its undertone, like a small fire crackling quietly. A muted focus on Castiel, but his mind evidently simmering and flashing with ideas and worries and thoughts, and these glimmering across Dean’s expression. Castiel knows Dean well. Still. Can recognise all his thought processes, all his feelings.

So why had he been stupid enough to hope that Dean wasn’t straight?

“I—uh—I had to remake the cookies,” Dean explains. “I dropped the first batch.”

Well. That sounds like something Dean would do.

Castiel’s eyes graze over to the plates on the table. Cookies.

Just like when he first met Dean.

What is this, an apology? A sorry for all the years of silence? Of Dean never reaching out? Of Dean never coming round when Castiel visited his old home, returning from England?

Is it a nod to the friendship they used to have, an admittance of sentimentality, an admittance of feelings, even if those feelings are not romantic but purely platonic? Is Dean saying he’s missed Castiel?

Or, more likely, is Castiel reading into this simple gesture a little too much, and are they in fact, just cookies?

Well, that sounds a lot more plausible.

Castiel nearly laughs, but the hurt of the occasion somehow forbids his chest from being able to do so.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Dean says.

What?

Castiel’s gaze flits back up to Dean. His eyes burn and he wishes that he could turn back time and maybe change Dean’s mind, somehow make Dean love him like Castiel loved Dean.

“You, uh—” Castiel tries. It hurts to speak, now, for whatever reason. “You brought cookies over the day we first met.”

Dean opens his mouth but doesn’t speak.

Does he remember? Or is he only just remembering? Is this embarrassing him?

“Do you remember that?” Castiel asks. Dean nods weakly, mouth open, eyes watery.

Is he sad? Why is he sad?

“Yeah,” He confirms. “Of course.”

Dean remembers.

_ Dean remembers. _

And for another moment, Castiel forgets all the hurt and the rejection and all his sorrows, and is overcome but a sweetening, soft sensation of pure nostalgia.

“Did you—is it the same recipe? The nutmeg one?” Castiel manages to ask.

Dean blinks furiously, nodding in stuttered motions of confirmation.

“Yeah—” He answers. Castiel can’t believe Dean remembers. Still. “Yeah, it is.”

Castiel presses his lips together and nods. He reminds himself, however half-heartedly and brokenly, to close himself off to Dean Winchester.

“I always liked that one,” He says shortly. 

“Yes,” Dean says. “I know.”

Castiel isn’t given a moment to try and decipher what it is Dean means by this, can only squint for about a millisecond before Anna is coughing awkwardly, interrupting the pair and their thoughtful, uncomfortable, cautious silence. Dean starts at the sound of Castiel’s cousin.

“Your tea, Cassie,” She presses the cup into Cas’s hands. Dean looks away. His lip seems to be curling and his hands are twitching again.

“Thank you,” Castiel says. He wants to leave.

And so he does. Back into the living room. Leaving the green eyed, sandy haired man behind him.

Hopefully, though probably not, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, again - and please comment with any feedback! Thanks for reading - next chapter will be happier, from Cas's POV, on him and Dean first meeting.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed :)


	12. Young as the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long, I feel awful and I know I'm really shitty at updating anyway, but the past few weeks have been misery following quite an enormous tragedy, and it's a very long and probably TMI story, so please just accept my apologies for being the Offical Worst Ever at updating stories.
> 
> If you've stuck it out thank you so much! I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint hahaha.

**23 years, 1 month, and 9 days earlier**

**Dean and Cas are both 4 years old**

 

Castiel reads in his bedroom. Well, not exactly  _ reads _ , but he comes close enough to it, as he knows the story off by heart, as he does with so many of the other stories that now line the walls in neat, colourful stripes on the bookcase of his new room.

His daddy is trying to make it feel as much like home as possible for Castiel; but he doesn’t like it, and doesn’t like the change, and doesn’t like the thought of finding new friends here when he already found it hard enough back home; back in his  _ real  _ home where he felt like he belonged.

Now he just feels lost.

Lost and scared.

Which is why he reads: reads one of the most familiar and well-loved books he owns; so well-loved that its corners are bent and tattered and the cover has been folded backwards and forwards so many times that it seems ready to fall off altogether.

His mommy used to read this story to him every night, and now he reads it to himself and mouths the words she used to speak as she read, thinking of their little shapes and the shapes they make on his lips, and about how these words and letters once sounded in his mother’s mouth.

Castiel is quiet. He likes stories. He likes stories better than he likes most people. And now they’ve moved to a new place and he only knows his daddy and his older brother, Gabriel, here; and his other brother Michael has moved away to college and will only come back during the holidays and already Castiel  _ misses  _ Michael and misses home and more than anything in the world, he misses his mommy. Misses her so that it hurts inside his chest and all he can think of are all the conversations they used to have and how she used to run her finger down the bridge of his nose and hum and crinkle her eyes together whenever she greeted him.

Castiel isn’t used to feeling lonely. Normally, he  _ likes _ being alone, likes sitting in his room and imagining whole new and mysterious worlds, looking through picture books, tracing his fingertip over letters and sounding them out, wishing to crack them open and unravel them and all their secrets. He likes colouring pictures of trees and flowers and bees, maybe humming quietly while doing this, but most likely sitting in silence, chewing thoughtfully at his lip. Better yet, he likes going outside on his own and  _ looking  _ at trees and flowers and bees. He likes thinking to himself, doing nothing but thinking, and he  _ never  _ felt lonely when his mommy was around, never ever.

But his mommy is gone, and Castiel feels lonely. Lonelier than the tallest, coldest mountain in the world.

He misses baking pies and cupcakes with her. He misses her long blond hair and sparkly eyes. Misses the voices she used to put on when she read stories to him at bedtime. Misses the lullabies she sang and the words she taught him.

And he doesn’t understand why she got so sad, or why she would want to leave Castiel behind.

He throws the book he had been reading and clumsily wipes at the tears on his face with the palms of his hands.

He can hear voices downstairs, and knows that he heard someone at the door earlier, but he doesn’t want to go investigate. He wants to stay up here and dream of clouds and talking creatures and patterns and moonlight.

“Castiel?”

Someone calls Castiel’s name from downstairs. It’s removed and muffled by distance, but enough to drag Castiel from his thoughts and daydreaming.

Castiel frowns and clambers up, walking out onto the upstairs landing. He peers down the bannisters. His daddy stands at the foot of the stairs.

He climbs down them and frowns at his father.

“Castiel,” Jimmy kneels down to be at eye-level with his son as Castiel stands on the bottom stair. Jimmy peers at Castiel with his wide, bright blue eyes. “A little boy named Dean wants to play with you and welcome you to the neighbourhood. He’s in the kitchen with his mom, they made cookies.”

Castiel looks down, suddenly anxious.

Someone new?

“He’d like to be your friend. Do you want to meet him?”

Castiel shakes his head. 

No, no, no thank you, Castiel doesn’t want that at all. He wants to panic.

Jimmy sighs.

“I won’t force you,” He says. “But I think it’d be good for you. You’ll be glad to have friends when you feel lonely—”

“I feel lonely because I miss my  _ mom—” _

“I’ve said I’m not forcing you,” Jimmy raises his hands. “But Dean seems very nice and friendly. He lives in the green house right opposite ours.”

Castiel glances out of the window in the hallway at his father’s words. This is nice information to be given. He can see the green house from where he stands. He liked it as soon as he saw it. It’s quite little, and warm looking. Not big or fancy or imposing, just small and friendly. He likes that it’s green and matches the trees, likes that it’s the same colour as leaves and grass and flower stems.

“Okay,” Castiel nods, taking his daddy’s hand. He feels nervous, his heart beats quickly inside his chest so that it hurts and nearly rattles at Castiel’s body. He squeezes at Jimmy’s fingers, seeking reassurance without even realising it. His daddy squeezes back.

“Is that a ‘I’ll meet him?’” Castiel’s daddy asks.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, not looking up at his dad. Jimmy squeezes his hand reassuringly and leads Castiel through to the kitchen.

Castiel peeps nervously round the door as Jimmy lets go of his hand and pushes gently at his shoulders from behind. Castiel wishes he could be hiding behind his daddy’s legs, or better yet, upstairs in his bedroom, alone again.

But no, here he is, standing in front of his father, having to walk forward instead of run away in the opposite direction as he so desperately desires… He wants Jimmy’s hands on his shoulders to be as reassuring as his father means them to be, but they fall so terribly short of this that Castiel finds himself nearly squirming with discomfort.

“Castiel,” Jimmy walks Castiel gently forward, his hand on Castiel’s back, “this is Dean. He lives in the green house across the road from us. This is his mommy Mary Winchester, and this is his little brother Sammy.” Castiel’s daddy hadn’t mentioned a baby. Castiel frowns at the little figure in his mommy’s arms, perhaps out of jealousy. 

His heart definitely twists with something bitter at the sight of the tiny creature nestled in its mother’s arms, and Cassie wonders why it is that his thoughts have turned so ugly because of his own sadness.“They brought cookies to welcome us into the neighbourhood. Dean wanted to ask if you would like to play with him?”

Castiel looks at the boy of about his age.

Big green eyes and a happy smile and lots of messy freckles. Those are the first thing Castiel notices about the boy. And a set of slightly crooked teeth that match his big smile and very ruffled sandy hair.

He’s very pretty, and Castiel feels suddenly very scared. He doesn’t like it, and doesn’t like the boy for making him feel this way. He shuffles back, but his daddy’s legs are behind him and he can’t run away, no matter how much he wants to.

“Hello,” The boy says. “I’m Dean.”

Castiel presses his lips together and swallows.

Dean  _ sounds _ friendly, at least. Cassie’s mommy always told him to watch people’s eyes when they spoke, because it would be easier to tell what they were feeling.

Dean’s eyes are wide and his pupils are big and black. He looks excited. Castiel still feels scared. That Dean feels excited manages to make Castiel feel  _ more  _ scared.

“I’m Castiel,” He replies, voice just about as small and shy as he feels.

“I’m four and three-quarters,” The boy says.

“I’m four, too,” Cassie states. His confidence grows a little, maybe from being a little bit older than Dean. Gabriel  _ always _ shows off about being older than Castiel, so it  _ must _ be important. “I turn five on the eleventh of September. My daddy says that’s nine days from now.”

Dean beams.

Castiel feels nervous again—why is Dean smiling at this?

The boy’s green eyes crease up at their corners and make Castiel think that at least the boy is being truthful.

“Do you like cars?” Dean asks. He asks this very loudly. Dean seems very loud in general, actually. And Castiel doesn’t like cars. He likes  _ plants _ .

“Uh,” He takes a tiny step back, frowning. Scared. He reaches for his daddy’s shirt. Jimmy slides a hand onto his shoulder, warm and reassuring. “They’re alright…”

Dean deflates, looking down.

Well, Castiel  _ definitely  _ doesn’t like that look on the boy’s face.

He prefers the smile, he decides quickly. But why is that?

And how can he get Dean to smile?

Well, Dean seems to like talking, and a lot. So Castiel talks.

“Do you like bees?” He asks. Bees are Castiel’s favourite. He hopes Dean likes them, too, though he isn’t very sure why: ordinarily he’d be more than happy having nothing to talk about with this boy, and wandering back upstairs to his bedroom, to be on his own. Dean looks back up. His big green eyes flicker as though he is thinking. He doesn’t answer straight away.

“Yeah,” He nods. “They’re awesome.” Castiel seeps with happiness. “They’re probably my favourite bug.”

Cassie smiles shyly. Jimmy chuckles softly, squeezing Castiel’s shoulder.

“How about you two go and play outside?” He suggests. “You wanna grab a ball?” He looks down at Castiel. “Play catch?”

Castiel nods, looking up to his dad, and hops out the room. He rummages in one of the boxes labeled ‘Toys - Outside’, out on the hallway, sifting through tennis balls and rackets and his brother’s deflated football, before finding what he’s looking for. He comes back with a big yellow ball. His favourite.

“You coming?” He asks Dean, peeping around the door, still a little shy. Dean grins lopsidedly and skips out the room after Castiel. That’s all the answer Castiel needs.

He jumps down the steps of his porch and turns to the other boy. The Autumn sunlight makes patterns on Dean’s face and make his eyes gleam with gold. His hair turns to the colour of honey in the sunbeams. Even though he still seems pretty scary, the light  _ does  _ make him look like a picture, too.

“What’s your favourite kind of bee?” Castiel asks.

Dean falters.

Suspicion grows inside Castiel’s chest.

“Um…” The chews his bottom lip. He looks suddenly nervous and uncomfortable. “There are different types?”

Castiel laughs.

“Of course there are, silly.”

He throws the ball to Dean. Dean catches it and frowns.

“I’m not silly,” He shakes his head, a pout growing across his features. Castiel would want to laugh at it normally, but thinks this might be rude. “What different types of bee are there?” Dean asks, still pouting and frowning. He probably isn’t very used to being teased, so maybe doesn’t have any older brothers.

“Carpenter bees, bumblebees, honey bees—” Castiel lists, and Dean interrupts him.

“I like honey bees,” The boy decides. He throws the ball back to Castiel. “I like honey.”

Honey bees. Castiel likes them too. Likes honey. Likes that the boy with green eyes likes it too. It suits him. Why does it suit him? Because his hair turns the colour of dark, golden honey in the sunlight?

“I like honey bees too,” He nods. “Bumblebees are my favourite, though.” He points down at the bee on his T-shirt. “This is a bumblebee.”

And it’s his favourite T-shirt. His mommy got it for him. Castiel’s thoughts nearly turn sad for a moment, but Dean’s response comes too quickly to allow them to linger for any longer than a second, and he is fortunately distracted by Dean’s happy hum of an answer.

“Oh,” Dean says. “Cool. It looks fuzzy.”

“They are,” Castiel nods. Bumblebees are  _ very _ fuzzy and soft. And nice. And absolutely his favourite. “There are lots of different types of bumblebees,” He explains, glad to have someone to talk with about bees  _ at last. _ “White tailed bumblebees, red tailed bumblebees,  _ tree  _ bumblebees—”

“Where did you learn about this stuff?” Dean interrupts. He does this a lot, Castiel has noticed. Is loud, and interrupts. Castiel finds it a little rude, but still decides that he doesn’t dislike Dean, not because of this or anything else that he does that Castiel finds scary or rude.

“I like bees,” Castiel shrugs. Then he frowns. He remembers the spark of suspicion Dean’s actions lit in him earlier. “I thought you did, too?”

He tosses the ball accusingly back to Dean.

Did Dean lie to him? Has Dean been lying to him this whole time?

Is Castiel talking to a boy who lies?

Distrust sears through him, and Castiel wants to go inside and be alone again. This is why he doesn’t like talking to people, especially new people, especially new children.

“I do,” Dean stammers. “I just—don’t know much about them.” His words come up quickly and jumbled, like he’s nervous. Castiel glances at his expression and notes how worried it is. And how the boy’s big green eyes dance with fear. What’s he scared of?

Castiel remembers how his daddy said Dean was friendly, and how he wanted to be Castiel’s friend.

Maybe Dean is just trying to make friends with Castiel.

“Oh, okay,” Castiel shrugs carelessly. “I have lots of books about them,” He explains to Dean, and gives a little smile. “I like books.”

Dean could borrow some, if he wanted.

“Me too,” Dean says quickly. This sparks an interest inside of Castiel “What else do you like?”

“I like playing outside. Exploring. Doing somersaults.”

“Me too!”

Dean’s words come out very loud again.

The boy grins a big, wide grin that shows off the fact that he’s lost one of his teeth quite recently, and the look makes Castiel feel inexplicably happy.

He grins.

Something friendly grows in the air between him and Dean.

“You wanna have a race?” Castiel asks.

Dean’s smile grows even bigger and it looks like he’s tempted to start bouncing up and down with excitement.

“Sure!” He exclaims. Then he  _ does  _ start bouncing, and it makes Castiel laugh, and Dean giggles, giggles as though he doesn’t quite know what Castiel finds so funny but he wants to join in and he’s happy to be here, playing with Castiel.

And Castiel realises that he’s happy to be here, playing with Dean, too. Just about. Despite being nervous and despite Dean being loud and, frankly, a little intimidating. Even if he obviously doesn’t mean to be.

They have a race to see who can roll up and down the garden quickest, who can hop all around it fastest, they fall over and laugh and giggle and Castiel shows Dean his favourite flowers and plants and Dean looks at them with big eyes the same colours as their leaves and touches them as gently as Castiel thinks the little boy possibly can.

And Castiel forgets completely how sad he felt earlier.

Dean’s mommy comes out a while later and smiles at Dean and Castiel in the way that Amelia used to smile when Gabriel played nicely with Castiel and didn’t tease him.

And suddenly Castiel remembers how sad he felt earlier. Just like that.

Mary calls Dean over, and Castiel supposes that Dean will be going home now, and that Castiel will have to spend the rest of the day alone, unable to think about anything happy. And Dean is  _ so good  _ at thinking about happy, exciting things.

“Dean, we’re going back now—”

“Can’t I stay?” Dean asks, frowning up at his mother. Castiel watched from a distance, playing with his now slightly dirty hands, suddenly sad again.

“The Novaks are coming round for dinner tonight,” She kneels in front of Dean, still holding Sammy. “So you’ll get to play with Castiel some more, then. Is that okay?”

Dean whines and looked away.

Castiel looks over to the pretty green house across the road, and it little windows and welcoming front porch. He thinks about how nice it would look in a forest in a story book.

“Oh, he’s got that puppy-dog expression down to a T,” Jimmy chuckles behind Castiel. Cassie turns to look at his father again, who looks affectionately down at Dean. “He can stay a while, if he’d like. I could drop him back home in an hour?”

Castiel beams happily. Dean does the same, looking up to Castiel’s father with all the gratefulness in the world, beaming a crooked, happy grin.

Dean’s mommy hums thoughtfully, unconvinced.

_ “Please?”  _ Dean asks his mom, the sound coming out long and high in the middle. She chuckles and ruffles at his hair. A tinge of jealousy twists itself through Castiel’s gut, and he immediately feels awful and guilty for it.

He misses his mom so much he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Fine,” Mary sighs, smile loose. “But you’re gonna have to get cleaned up when you come back. Deal?”

“Deal,” Dean grins, hugging his mother then running back over to Castiel.

Castiel’s insides thrum happily, even if he feels shy again with how loud and boisterous Dean is being.

“I can stay!” Dean exclaims, taking hold of Castiel’s hands and bouncing up and down. Castiel smiles and nods.

“I heard.”

Dean giggles and runs over to the yellow ball, picking it up.

“You wanna play catch?” He asks. “Or hide and seek? That’s one of my favourite games.” He bounds back over to Castiel, apparently more full of energy than he had even earlier, when he scared Castiel with how loud and excitable he was. His pupils are big and his cheeks have turned a little pink. “Sammy likes hide and seek best, too.”

“I thought he was a baby?” Castiel frowns.

“Well,” Dean admits, chewing his lip. “I guess. But he likes playing peekaboo. Which is  _ basically  _ hide and seek.”

Castiel smiles.

“Oh. Okay.”

“So what d’you wanna play?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. He doesn’t know many games. Gabriel prefers watching TV and playing video games, especially since their mom died—and sometimes he’ll just spend all his time in his room, listening to loud music through headphones; and Michael is always working when he’s at home. Castiel spends most of his time wandering or reading. He likes colouring in and drawing shapes. He likes exploring and adventuring outside, but he generally does this on his own, too. 

“I know,” Dean grins, then he taps Castiel’s arm, a little hard. Castiel feels tempted to glare at the other little boy. “Tag!” Dean exclaims, before Castiel can react properly. “You’re It!”

“What?” Castiel frowns.

“You have to chase me,” Dean backs away from Castiel, smiling impishly. “And tag me.”

“And then what?”

“And then I tag you.”

“What’s the point?”

“Fun!” Dean exclaims, turning and breaking into a run. Castiel tilts his head a moment, confused as he watches the boy dart and turn and tease Castiel. And he can’t help in running after him.

They spend all their time outside, and don’t even start getting bored of it, and Castiel wants to show Dean all around his house and play upstairs, but Jimmy comes outside and tells Castiel and Dean that their hour is up. Castiel bunches his hands together and looks away, sad again.

Dean doesn’t seem nearly as sad, which makes Cassie feel  _ worse _ . 

But then Dean taps Castiel’s shoulder.

“You’re gonna have dinner at my house, remember?” He grins. Castiel smiles reluctantly.

“I remember,” He nods.

“D’you want to drop Dean back home with me, Castiel?” Jimmy asks. Castiel nods. Yes. He definitely, definitely does.

Dean takes a hold of Castiel’s hand as they cross the road, even though it’s empty. Castiel looks up to his daddy, nervous, and  _ very  _ nervous at that, but Jimmy only smiles and squeezes Cassie’s shoulder.

Castiel feels shy again when they reach Dean’s house, no matter how pretty and mystical it looks. He hides behind his daddy’s legs when Dean pushes open the door and waves goodbye, grinning obliviously. Cassie manages to peek out and wave goodbye, too, even if he still feels uncomfortable and awkward.

“Bye, Castiel!”

Dean sounds just as excited as ever.

Cassie smiles, just about.

“Goodbye,” He returns. Dean’s smile stretches wider at Castiel’s response. For the first time, Castiel sounds out the name of the other boy on his lips, and decides quickly that he likes it. “Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters of The College Years and The Devil's Epitaph will also be up shortly! Again, I'm so so so so sorry for the wait!
> 
> Next chapter will be from Cas's perspective again, and in the present day.


	13. The Worst Hour

 

Castiel reenters his living room to see that Gabriel has moved into his seat, and Michael into Gabriel’s, and decides that even if this means that he is no longer trapped in the middle, he still doesn’t want to sit with them. He spots Mara on the floor with a plate of food and smiles.

Now Chuck is in deep conversation with Mary Winchester, who glances up at him as he enters, but fortunately does not try to speak to Castiel. It floods him with relief.

Castiel goes and sits on the floor opposite Mara and crosses his legs beneath him.

“Mara,” He says, “why’re you sat here all on your own?”

Mara shrugs.

“The grown-ups here are boring.”

Castiel can’t help the reluctantly amused titter that escapes his lips at this.

“Yes, I know the feeling.”

“I’m sorry about uncle Jimmy,” She says. Castiel looks down. “I liked him.”

“Me too,” Castiel replies. “He was a great father.”

“I liked his baking.”

“I liked it too,” Castiel smiles, genuinely. “He always used food to cheer me up.”

“My daddy can’t cook at all.”

“Can’t he?” Castiel chuckles, a little sadly. “Well, I’m sure he’s good at other stuff.”

“He is,” Mara agrees. “He’s great at thinking up games. Did your daddy do that with you?”

“A little,” Castiel confirms. “He liked telling me stories, better. And then, when I was old enough, reading  _ my _ stories.”

“Did you show him all of your stories?”

Castiel looks down and shakes his head.

No.

No. Some were too special to share.

He says this.

Then he says that Jimmy understood how important it was to have some things that were special and private, and didn’t mind Castiel not sharing some of his stories. Castiel can’t even share them with publishers; can’t share his poetry with publishers whatsoever, and will not do so, he thinks, for as long as he lives. It’s too intimate and too important.

“Hey,” A voice says above Castiel, rather appropriately interrupting his thoughts of melancholy with a reminder of what—or rather, who, first caused them. “I got you—”

Castiel looks up at Dean, and this in itself seems to be enough to have Dean feeling so uncomfortable that he can’t finish his sentence, panic washing his face vacant. The end of Dean’s sentence comes out entirely incomprehensible, and Castiel rolls his eyes, feeling surprisingly bitter and even more tired—both at Dean’s antics and the natural depression which accompanies the occasion. 

He looks at the plate in Dean’s hand.

And finds himself touched by the thoughtfulness of Dean’s gesture. He fumbles with his hands a moment, before replying.

“Oh,” He says, somehow not able to get over his surprise at the fact Dean seems to  _ care _ , taking the plate from Dean, feeling just as cautious as he did the day he and Dean first met. Except now he has no Jimmy to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder, or mumble comforting words into Castiel’s ear. “Thank you.”

Dean nods, offers Castiel a rather unconvincing smile.

“Did you know Uncle Jimmy, too?” Mara asks Dean.

“I—uh—” Dean struggles for his words, blinking furiously. Castiel recognises this expression on Dean’s face; he’s panicking at being forced to talk about feelings, something he’s always been undeniably cruddy at.“Yeah,” He confirms. “I did.”

“Are you friends with Castiel?” Mara asks. Dean swallows, looking first at her, then to Castiel.

She’s unknowingly just asked the most loaded question she possibly could have asked, probably ever. Castiel’s insides tremor, then he steels himself, closing himself off to the hurt that walks alongside Dean’s reluctance to answer.

“I’m—” Dean stares, uselessly, at Castiel, unable to find his words in answer to Mara’s seemingly perfectly innocent question.

What’s wrong with Dean? Why is he acting so weirdly?

Well, Castiel knows why, coming to think of it.

So he takes pity, inexplicably, has mercy on his once-best friend.

“Mara, this is Dean Winchester,” He explains. “He used to live in the house opposite this one.”

“The green one?”

“That’s it,” Castiel confirms.

“So he was your neighbour?” She asks. Castiel smiles weakly and nods.

“He was.”

Neighbour doesn’t quite do it justice. Doesn’t nearly capture the depth and sincerity of Dean and Castiel’s once-relationship. He doesn’t say this.

Mara looks up to Dean again. Dean looks at her, still seeming terrified.

“Castiel normally lives in  _ Europe,”  _ She states, as though this is just about the most impressive thing she knows. Castiel nearly swells with equal parts pride and embarrassment. Dean’s smile in response to those deep brown eyes is almost sincere.

Almost.

If Castiel plays it right in his head, he could pretend that Dean is proud of Castiel,  _ looks  _ proud of Castiel, for everything he’s done.

Has Dean even read any of Castiel’s books?

Castiel snorts.

No.

No. Of course not.

What a stupid thought. What a stupid wish.

“I’ve heard,” Dean laughs. He settles himself onto the floor next to Castiel and the girl, crossing his legs as they have, it seems rather instinctively, as he catches himself, flushing, and glances at Castiel with worried eyes— _ is this okay? Is it okay, considering everything?  _ He seems to ask.

Castiel can read the look. Castiel can read  _ Dean. _

_ Still.  _ Still, he knows the other man too well. 

He gives only a small shrug and turns away, letting Dean know that he certainly isn’t  _ happy  _ about this situation, but that he’ll cope with it, at least for now.

All the wounds in his heart still hurt. And for a moment he hates Dean for coming today, even if earlier he’d been wishing, or rather, reluctantly hoping, that Dean  _ would _ come. He hates Dean for being so selfish and distracting Castiel on a day that should have been about his father,  _ all _ about his father, and about Castiel addressing the loss that his life is sure to suffer as a result of Jimmy’s passing. Bitterness and resentment sear through him, and somehow, Castiel feels just as angry at them as he does at Dean.

“Where do you normally live?” Mara asks. Dean swallows loudly. Castiel stares at the plate Dean has handed to him, refusing to look anywhere else, frowning heavily. He feels as though he has been suspended in ether, tiny strings made of glass holding him perfectly still, immobilised, and that any second they may break, or drop him, or both. All around him is nothing; silence; he starts to ache, thinking about his father and how much time he spent with Dean  _ and  _ his father, at the same time, and wishes he could have cut Dean out of life, could cut his memories away now, and keep those memories of him and his father as  _ just  _ of him and his father, with no bitter taste of Dean to sour them.

“Um—” Dean coughs, splutters awkwardly. Why is he being so constantly uncomfortably? That’s  _ Castiel’s  _ thing, not  _ Dean’s.  _ Dean was the confident, arrogant one, who smirked and eyed just about all of his albeit female peers like he wanted to fuck them. “Not in Europe,” He laughs. “And not in the green house opposite this one, any more. I live in town, close to work—”

“What do you do?” Mara asks. Dean squirms uncomfortably in his seat. Castiel watches, making sure to keep his head low, gazing through his eyelashes, still frowning.

“Nothing as cool as Castiel—” He shakes his head. “Just—this and that. I teach music to high school students and give guitar lessons and sometimes perform at The Roadhouse—”

“Oh,” Mara seems to have lost interest. Castiel would normally give her a look to tell her off for being so dismissive, but he forces himself not to care and feel bitterly triumphant at this, and in any case, all he can do now is peer silently at Dean. “Castiel is a writer,” She informs, matter-of-factly.

Dean chokes out a reply that is so short and concise that Castiel could break his own heart with it.

“I know.”

And now Castiel feels more confused than ever.

Has Dean missed him? He’s acting like he has, and yet his actions over the past five years—or lack thereof, have had Castiel convinced that Dean never felt  _ anything _ much for Castiel, at all. Who can cut someone off so thoroughly? Who could do something like that so entirely, to the person who had supposedly been their best friend, for nearly all their life?

“Will you miss your dad?” Mara turns to Castiel and peers curiously, earnestly at him with the sincerest kind of expression that only children are able to take on. Dean fumbles with his fingers, the gesture confusing Castiel even more. Granted, it’s not unexpected that Dean should feel uncomfortable with being here, but why is he behaving so nervous and skittish? He moves like a small frightened animal that has heard gunshots in a forest, not the tall, muscled, confident young man Castiel once knew him to be.

“I will,” Castiel looks down, picking up an almond and tapping it on the plate distractedly. The noise is somehow both rounded and hollow, a rat-at-at on the plate that grounds him and distracts him from the gnawing melancholy in his gut that hollows him out and fills him completely, like a parasite. “Yes…” He confirms, voice distant. “But that’s okay.” 

He pauses, lips parted, breathing slowly in and out, still looking down. “And it’s okay to be sad about it. It reminds me that he meant a lot to me, that he was a good man. And he  _ was _ . He really was a good man.” Castiel looks up to Mara again and smiles a closed-mouth smile through watery eyes. These tears don’t burn him, instead they just drown. “And I wouldn’t have wished for any other father. Ever. Even if that  _ new  _ father could  _ never _ die. I’d choose your Uncle Jimmy, every time.”

And he means it.

His dad was perfect in every way, it seems, now. Well, every way, except in his own mortality.

Mara stands and pulls Castiel towards her for a hug. He laughs awkwardly, tearily, as she stands at least a head taller than him from where he sits on the floor, hugging him tightly.

“I’m gonna go find Beth,” She informs him. “I hope you feel better soon, Castiel.”

Castiel offers a faint smile.

“Thank you,”

He means it.

He looks back down at the floor and avoids Dean’s gaze, despite the fact that he feels it stinging the side of his face.

“So that was your…” Dean starts awkwardly. Castiel groans internally.

Enough. Enough. He doesn’t want to have to talk to Dean any more, to talk about anything. He doesn’t care. He’s moved on. He wants to grieve. Can’t Dean just let him grieve in peace?

“Cousin, once removed,” Castiel presses his lips together. “Muriel’s daughter.”

“Muriel has a  _ daughter?” _

Dean speaks suddenly as he did when they were teenagers, with the surprised, confident incredulity of an eighteen year old. But he and Castiel aren’t what they used to be, and that’s Dean’s fault, so he should just  _ stop. _

Castiel looks up at those green eyes again.

He convinces himself that they aren’t that pretty. They’re not the colours of gemstones or nature manifest; not emeralds nor moss. They’re the colour of mould. Of children’s snot. His lips aren’t the colour of roses, they’re the colour of sunburn. His freckles aren’t constellations, they may as well be acne scars, they’re blemishes on the flesh of a thoughtless man who has treated  _ Castiel  _ thoughtlessly, and they’re not enchanting, they’re only further imperfections of Dean and his character.

And of course, Dean’s hyper-masculinity is not attractive—only infuriating; his voice isn’t gravelly, it’s gruff and forced; Dean’s sense of humour is lewd and boisterous and immature and there consists to it almost no wit whatsoever; Dean lacks focus and is loud and hyperactive and sporadic in his work and thinking—unreliable, in fact—Castiel has always known this. Dean is brash and insensitive and  _ hyper _ sensitive and Castiel is  _ glad  _ to be rid of him.

“Obviously,” He glares at Dean, who shrinks down where he sits and pulls a pained, remorseful expression.

“Okay, sorry. Stupid question.” He frowns at the ground and fumbles with his hands again. Castiel clenches his jaw and hardens his heart to Dean’s actions, which once upon a time would have been just about the most endearing thing on the planet to him. “So, is she married, now?”

“To Daniel,” Castiel answers simply. He wishes that Dean would drop it, would stop trying to force conversation. Why is he trying to do so, anyway? It’s too late; it’s nine years of total silence too late.

“Oh,” Dean swallows. He stares at the ground, and Castiel watches as his expression trembles. With what, Castiel cannot decipher.

“So… Mara,” Dean fumbles uncomfortably. “Amara’s granddaughter?”

“Amara’s granddaughter,” Castiel confirms, distant.

Silence. Thank God.

Castiel is relieved.

So why does it hurt so much?

“Well, I should probably get outta your hair,” Dean starts, standing, taking a shuddering breath. At last, Castiel looks up at him.

The sight he’s met by surprises him with how it steals the air from his lungs.

Green eyes. Green eyes that used to seem so effortlessly beautiful to him, and that now Castiel has to cut himself off from these completely to stop himself from feeling. Rose lips. Soft, strong jaw. Brown eyelashes. Freckles like a starry sky.

Dean stops short, Castiel can practically see the nervous breath catching in his throat.

And suddenly Castiel doesn’t feel hateful toward Dean.

It’s so confusing, this back and forth of emotions, but Castiel can hardly  _ blame  _ Dean for what happened, nine years ago, even if it hurt him more than words could say.

“Thank you…” He frowns, breathing slowly, managing to look through Dean and think of the past the two of them shared, together. “Thank you for coming. And for the cookies. You didn’t have to, and I know—” He swallows, looking away. His heart hurts with a storm of painful memories. He blinks through the temptation of tears. “Just… thank you.”

Dean somehow manages to sigh without breathing at all.

“I wanted to be here for you,” He replies, licking his lips. For whatever reason, Castiel actually manages to  _ believe _ him. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He swallows and winces as though this particularly hurt to get out. “Not ever.”

For the first time he can remember in nine years, Castiel smiles at Dean. And means it.

Even if it hurts.

“Thank you, Dean.”


	14. Side by Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter, but I hope the fluff makes up for it!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been commenting so far, you guys are the best.
> 
> Expect chapter 15 in a couple of days!

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

“No, I know,” Gabriel shrugs, fiddling with his headphones where they rest, on the kitchen table. He sits at it, while Jimmy tidies the kitchen, pottering about as the sound of the plates and cutlery he puts away rings musically in the new, empty room. “And I don’t  _ not  _ want to go, it’s just…”

“I’ve said you don’t have to.”

Gabriel looks down, not meeting their father’s gaze. Both of Jimmy’s palms now rest on the table Gabriel sits at, and their father gazes earnestly at his second son.

Gabriel glances backwards at Castiel, who stands, worried, at the door.

“What do you say, Cassie?” He asks, a familiar smile flickering across his otherwise lonely features. “You like this Winchester family?”

Castiel shrugs and shuffles in, accepting his father’s invitation to pick him up. He winds his arms round Jimmy’s neck and worries that soon, he’ll be too big for this.

“I only talked to Dean,” Castiel says, peering back at his big brother. “But his mommy seemed nice.”

Then he looks down and feels suddenly sad again.

Gabriel frowns and swallows.

“Sure, I’ll go,” He answers Jimmy suddenly, after a moment of slow peering at his younger brother. “I’ve got to make sure this Dean kid’s a good guy, right?”

“He’s four years old, Gabriel,” Jimmy chuckles, rolling his eyes. “And very innocent. Same age as Castiel.”

At this, Castiel’s daddy squeezes him softly and ruffles at Cassie’s hair. The little boy wrinkles his nose and ruffles his father’s in return, which earns another warm chuckle from Jimmy’s lips.

“So, two kids?” Gabriel asks. Their dad makes a noise of confirmation. “And you like Dean?” Gabriel asks, turning to his little brother.

Castiel looks down, feeling the same kind of nervous as he was earlier, being introduced to Dean. Jimmy squeezes him again, in his arms.

“Castiel was a little shy today. But I think he had fun. Right?”

Pause.

Gabriel’s eyes rest heavy on Cassie’s body as his older brother waits for a response.

Castiel nods at his daddy’s assessment.

“But you liked Dean?”

Castiel shrugs.

“He’s very loud.”

Gabriel snorts.

“Oh,” He replies, obviously biting down on laughter. “But I am too,” He points out. “You still like  _ me _ , right?”

Castiel glances up.

“Only sometimes,” He sticks his tongue out at his brother, who barks out a laugh.

“Woah,” Gabriel titters, wiping his eyes. “I can’t believe I got so abused by a four year old.”

“I turn five on—”

Gabriel’s laughter interrupts Castiel.

“So Dean is loud,” He smiles good-naturedly. “What else is he?”

Castiel looks down and shrugs again, feeling shy once more. Gabriel waits for an answer. Jimmy is the one to provide it.

“He seemed very happy, didn’t he, Cassie? He smiled a lot and made silly jokes?”

Castiel nods and fumbles with his hands. Gabriel’s expression softens.

“‘He make you happy?” Gabriel asks.

Castiel pauses and thinks about this for a moment.

Happy.

It hasn’t seemed very possible since Castiel’s mommy died, and even less so considering how sad Amelia must have been to want to die in the first place. Castiel’s eyes start to hurt in a hot, prickling kind of way and he realises he’s about to start crying—but he hadn’t wanted to cry at all when he’d been talking to Dean.

He’d been having fun and forgetting about how sad his mommy was before she died, forgetting how much he missed her and thinking about happy things, like bees and playing tag and catch and rolling in soft, glowing grass until it left marks all over his and Dean’s clothing.

So… Yes?

Maybe.

Not happy like Castiel used to be happy with his mommy tickling his tummy and brushing his hair with her special soft brush; not happy like he used to be happy sitting on his daddy’s lap while his mommy told stories with his teddy bears or sang him a lullaby, but… Not sad, anymore. A giggling, forgetful kind of happy that grew tentatively every second he was with Dean. And Dean didn’t seem to mind at all, only wanted the happy to grow and was okay with it growing slowly, which seemed to grow it faster, anyway.

“I think so,” Castiel nods, blushing, still fumbling with his hands. He looks up to his brother and wrinkles his nose, despite his hot face. “He’s too loud, though,” He says, frowning, and both Gabriel and Jimmy bark out a laugh.

“Is that so?” Gabriel asks with a chuckle.

Castiel only nods.

“Terrible,” His brother grins. “You get enough of that from me, don’t you?”

Castiel giggles.

“Yes,” He confirms. “But Dean is funny, too. I think.”

“You  _ think  _ he’s funny?”

Castiel nods again.

“And what does that make me?” Gabriel asks, tittering and shaking his head. “You’re always bullying me, Cassie. It kills me.”

Castiel giggles and sticks his tongue out at Gabriel, who returns the gesture.

“So do you feel up to it?” Jimmy asks. Gabriel’s expression falls, but he twitches a smile and shrugs.

“Sure,” He says. “Why not?”

Castiel smiles as wide as his mouth will allow.

He doesn’t know why.

When standing at the door of Dean’s house, Castiel finds himself feeling suddenly nervous and shy again.

He tugs his daddy’s sleeve.

“I think I want to go home,” He says, looking up to Jimmy with wide, scared eyes. His brother sighs pointedly.

“Give it a go, Cassie,” Gabriel replies, speaking as though he finds Castiel’s indecisiveness, and introverted character, to be just about the most tedious thing out there. “You dragged  _ me  _ along to this, you can’t back out now.”

Castiel frowns, ready to protest at the several injustices of what Gabriel has just said, but Jimmy places a quietening hand on his shoulder.

“Gabriel, don’t be unkind,” He reprimands. “And Castiel,  _ do  _ give it a go—remember how much fun you had with Dean earlier? And how you didn’t want him to go?We’ll go inside for a little bit, to see how you’re feeling.—But if it  _ is  _ too much, just say, and I promise we’ll go home. Okay?”

Castiel looks down.

“Okay,” He answers, voice quiet.

When Gabriel knocks at the door, Castiel shuffles behind his father’s legs and decides he feels much safer, hidden, here.

Thumping sounds from inside the house, loud and clumsy, getting closer.

The door swings open suddenly. Castiel jumps back a little and holds onto Jimmy’s legs tighter.

“You’re not Castiel,” Dean says. Castiel peeps out from behind his dad’s legs to see Dean frowning up at Gabriel, a little accusingly, brown eyebrows knitted together into a tight frown.

“I’m not? Well, damn, and here I was  _ so convinced— _ but it seems I’ve been living a lie for sixteen years—”

Gabriel is using the voice that Castiel recognises as his teasing one, but he guesses that Dean won’t understand it.

He walks out from behind Jimmy’s legs and climbs up the steps to be next to Gabriel.

“Dean?”

“Castiel!”

Jimmy follows behind him.

“Hey there,” He smiles down at Dean. “This is Gabriel,” He gestures to Castiel’s older brother, “my second oldest. He’s been at school all day, that’s why you didn’t meet him earlier.”

“Heya Jimmy,” Dean’s mom comes in behind Dean, “and hello Gabriel. It’s good to meet you.”

“You too,” Gabriel twitches a smile. He glances nervously to Jimmy for a moment, and Castiel doesn’t miss it, but in the next second is as confident and friendly as usual.

Casie isn’t, however, given another second to dissect his older brother’s mood or actions, because Dean has grabbed hold of his hand and tugged him excitedly inside the house.

“Lemme show you around our house,” He squeezes the other boy’s fingers. Castiel stares down at Dean’s hand, wrapped around his, and frowns, not sure of how to feel. As he is led up the stairs of Dean’s home, hand still woven into Dean’s, he decides that he likes the sensation, even if it makes him nervous. “This is my room,” Dean grins, tugging Castiel through the door. “It’s where I sleep.”

Castiel giggles, thinking of how this is pretty obvious, but knows better than to tell Dean how silly he’s being.

“Oh,” He laughs, still a little uncomfortable, and looks about the room. A big poster hangs over Dean’s bed, three dragons flashing across its surface in bold colours. “You like dragons?” He asks, bunching his hands up because honestly, this kind of thing gets him a little excited.

“Oh, yeah,” Dean grins, hopping onto his bed and pointing at the poster. “I think they’re the coolest. I mean, they can breathe fire!” He exclaims. Castiel gives a rare smile, at this. “Do you like ‘em?”

Cassie clambers onto Dean’s bed and crosses his legs underneath him.

“I like stories about them,” He nods. “You know, ones about magic and fairies and knights and dragons. I like the stories where the dragons are the good guys, best.”

Dean beams and sits down opposite Castiel, drawing his legs up underneath him as the other boy has.

“Yeah, me too,” He agrees. “Imagine having a  _ pet  _ dragon.”

_ This  _ is a thought that Castiel enjoys. He smiles to himself, nearly losing his mind in thought for a moment. A  _ pet dragon.  _ He glances back up to Dean and thinks of how maybe being friends with him wouldn’t be so bad—wouldn’t be  _ at all  _ bad—after all.

Nobody else has ever asked Castiel such an interesting question. He presses his lips together. And then he decides to be friends with Dean. Even if Dean is loud and a little clumsy and excitable and easily distracted and  _ very  _ hyperactive.

They talk for what feels like a very long time about dragons, and different kinds of dragons, and Dean gets very excited and even  _ more  _ bubbly, and then says just about the nicest thing anyone in the world has ever said to Castiel.

“You really  _ should  _ write storybooks.”

Castiel’s cheeks go as hot as they would if little fires were burning on his face.

“Thank you,” He nods, glancing away.

“When I grow up, I want to be an adventurer,” Dean says impressively. “Like, exploring caves and new worlds and maybe even going into space and fighting monsters. And a pirate. I wanna be a pirate, too. And a fireman, like my daddy—he’s a fireman. I wanna save people as well. Maybe you could write stories about the adventures I go on?”

Well, that’s a very long list. How will Dean get round to doing all that stuff?

And all of it is very dangerous. Fighting monsters? Being a pirate? Or a fireman? What if Dean gets hurt? Has he thought this through at all? He really  _ should. _

It strikes Castiel, suddenly, of how different he and Dean are.

And for some reason, he giggles at this thought, and something warm gushes through him.

“Yes, that sounds good. I could go on the adventures with you, too?” He asks, hopeful.

It would make writing about Dean’s adventures much easier if Castiel was there, with him, as they happened—and anyway, he likes the thought of doing big and exciting things with Dean, even if ordinarily he prefers to stay on his own. He thinks that, if Dean were anything or anyone else, Castiel would probably prefer to stay out of his adventures.

“Yeah,” Dean beams. “Yeah,” He repeats. “And it’d be us against the world!”

“Us and our dragons.”

Dean is the one to giggle, this time.

Dean’s mommy calls them down for dinner and Dean makes a big fuss of sitting next to Castiel, glaring at his mom when she giggles at this. Castiel flushes and accepts Dean’s hand when the boy tries to hold his.

Dean’s bright green eyes stay fixed on Castiel all through the meal, as though he doesn’t realise there are so many people around him, and he asks Castiel question and laughs maybe a little too loudly, and eats quickly and messily and explains why both his little brother and father aren’t eating dinner with them.

“Sammy’s asleep, he’s already had his dinner,” Dean explains, as though this is very serious. “He sleeps  _ lots.  _ Otherwise he gets grumpy. He can’t  _ say  _ he’s grumpy, but you can  _ tell.  _ He cries and throws things. I used to have naps, too, but I don’t need them any more. I guess you don’t need naps either, ‘cause you’re older than me?” Dean beams winningly. “You must feel so grown-up. I can’t wait to turn five. I’ll do so many grown-up things! What are you gonna do? Are you gonna have a party? Do you think I could be invited?”

Castiel offers a small smile, flushing.

“I’d like you to come,” He confesses. “But I don’t know if I’d have a  _ party… _ ”

“That’s okay,” Dean replies, totally unphased. He offers a toothy grin. “I’ll get you a present anyway. Would you like that?”

Castiel giggles and nods.

“Cool. I  _ love  _ presents. Last year, my dad got me all these toy cars, they’re awesome—but you don’t like cars, do you? That’s okay. Sammy doesn’t really seem to care about them, either. But my daddy does—have you seen his car? It’s beautiful. My dad’s the  _ coolest.  _ He’s a fireman, did you know that?”

“Yes, you—”

“That’s why he’s not here tonight. He’s fighting fires. That’s what he does. Saves people. That’s what I want to do, too. He’ll be home in a few days. He’s teaching me how to play baseball. And football. Does your daddy teach you things like that?”

Castiel looks down and shakes his head.

“I prefer reading…” He says, voice small. “My daddy taught me how.”

“What stories do you like?”

Castiel shrugs.

“Lots,” He answers. “All of them? My favourites are about magic and new worlds and things like that. My mommy also used to—”

He cuts himself off and his eyes turn glassy, they burn and sting and prick and Castiel’s lip begins to tremble. He fumbles with his hands, suddenly sad.

He wants to go home.

He looks over to Jimmy, who, sensing his son’s sudden anguish and discomfort, looks back at him, frowning with concern. Castiel is about to give the signal that he’d like to go home, ready to burst into tears, but Dean takes a hold of his hand again and squeezes, touch suddenly soft and clumsy and very, very kind, instead of loud and boisterous and excitable.

“I like stories about magic, too,” He says. Castiel looks back over to him. “Maybe you can show me some?”

Castiel nods and swallows around the lump in his throat.

“My mommy used to make up stories, too,” He says managing to get this out without tearing up further. “She would sit by my bed and just make them up, just like that, like it was easy. She was so clever. I want to do that, when I grow up.”

Dean smiles, green eyes crinkling warmly at their corners.

“You could do that now, too?”

Castiel smiles and flushes.

“Yeah…” He mumbles. “Maybe.”

“I don’t think Sammy can understand stories yet,” Dean frowns. “He never pays attention when I try to tell him one.”

Castiel giggles.

“You’re silly, Dean.”

Dean grins, all toothy and guileless and infectious.

“My mommy says that to me  _ all the time.” _

Castiel giggles again.

Castiel doesn’t even know when it is that Dean starts calling him  _ ‘Cas’  _ instead of ‘Castiel’. He doesn’t mind, not in the slightest; and in fact quite likes it and how it seems a reminder of the fact that he and Dean are definitely,  _ absolutely  _ friends now. Anyway, Dean seemed to be having trouble with the name  _ Castiel,  _ with his slight lisp created by a missing front tooth, and how unusual Castiel’s name is.

But Castiel likes the way Dean says his new name; as though it is the most natural and ordinary thing in the world, when to Castiel, having a friend, a real, good, comforting friend like Dean, is just about the most extraordinary thing he can think of.

“Maybe soon we can have a sleepover?” Dean asks as they sit on his living room floor after dinner, playing with his toy dinosaurs. Gabriel smirks down at the pair from where he sits on an armchair, and Castiel frowns back at him, unsure of what it is his brother finds so amusing.

“Yes,” Castiel nods, looking back over to the younger boy with bright green eyes. He’s observed, over the evening, that deep amid the green are flecks of gold, and he can’t think of anything nicer. “That sounds nice. I could show you my books?”

“Yeah,” Dean grins, crossing his legs beneath him and staring excitedly at Cassie. “Or tell me some stories?”

Castiel presses his lips together nervously. 

“I’ll try.”

Dean beams.

“I can’t wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Comments are love!


	15. False Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably add chapter notes later but for now I'm way too tired! This chapter is really sad (surprise surprise) but by chapter 17 I can promise Dean and Cas DO start talking again! Sorry for shitty update timing, I hope things'll pick up again soon.

  
  


So, Dean has left. Again.

Castiel rolls his eyes.

Like he ought to have expected anything different.

But what has happened in the nine years since Castiel saw Dean last? Why is Dean so awkward now? What made Dean so obviously unhappy during Castiel’s years in England?

And more importantly, why does Castiel still  _ care?! _

Things have wound down, now, in any case, and both Mary and Sam have also left, Chuck opting to drive Sam home rather than have Dean do it—though Chuck shouldn’t be driving; shouldn’t be leaving the home, should be staying inside the house and mourning the passing of his brother. But once again, the Winchester brothers seem to have got in the way of that.

Because apparently they got in a physical fight, today.

Not that Castiel cares. Not that he can bring himself to care, anymore.

Somebody knocks at the door. Why are they  _ knocking?  _ Don’t they understand how shiva works?

There are voices on the hallway. Castiel stares bleakly at one of the bookshelves, which now feels as though it is lined with hundreds and hundreds of ghosts, rather than his father’s favourite novels and works, all in easy reaching distance from the couch.

_ An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew; The Introvert Advantage; The Faerie Queene; The Problem of Pain— _ if ever someone were to ask Castiel of the full character of his father, he would show them the beloved contents of this bookcase, with their broken spines and dog-eared pages. Jimmy Novak, like Castiel, was not a man who found it easy to keep things neat—especially when he loved them. His books are— _ were— _ marked signs of this. Some, when opened, would drop leaves of pages onto the floor, others were bound together by tape, scribbled on, bookmarked, half-read, re-read, revisited, adored. 

And what will happen to these books now? Jimmy’s beloved possessions, the only earthly things he valued, where will they go now? And what will happen to the house? Castiel’s childhood home—will it be sold? The thought breaks his heart; Castiel grew up here, learned and developed his own soul here, made friends here, more memories than he can recount… this house  _ shaped  _ him,  _ made  _ him, just as his father did, and it’s a mirror of his father and everything that Castiel has lost, a perfect portrait of it all…

...Which is why, equally, the thought of  _ staying  _ here makes Castiel feel so very sick.

The voices have moved to the kitchen. Castiel stares dead-eyed at the bookcase and considers how much it would hurt him to read, or even move, any one of the books here. The people and chatter around him become blurred in his vision and in his ears, muffling and misting together until they are indistinguishable, and blotted out all but completely from his thoughts.

The thing that draws him from his thoughts, like a net full of fish being dragged out of water, is a curiously familiar scent floating through the room.

All but his closest family have left, now, and the sweet, warm something that fills Cas’s nostrils unfurls itself through his mind and awakens more suppressed memories than are welcome, here.

Castiel stands and follows the scent down the hall and to the doorway of the kitchen, mind far away. He is only half-aware of his surroundings, somehow present and not, listening and daydreaming. And muffled sounds turn into distinguishable voices.

He peers round the open door.

His stomach clenches sharply.

Dean. Again.

_ Why has he come back?! _

“...If I could find anyone to have a kid with me, I would,” He laughs that rough, unconvincing laugh that always follows something self-deprecating falling from his lips. Castiel is bitingly tempted to roll his eyes.

_ ‘Please,’  _ he thinks bitterly to himself, ‘ _ there must be  _ hundreds  _ of women  _ begging  _ to have your babies. You’re just not well-adjusted enough to settle down with any of them, or even  _ want  _ to.’ _

Does Dean even  _ like _ kids? Castiel doubts it. Dean, and his hyper masculine exterior, and his macho attempts at displaying some strange, warped kind of self-worth, don’t leave much room for liking children.

The sandy-haired man’s gaze flickers over to Castiel and his eyes widen into something both deeply embarrassed and sorely shocked. 

Castiel could hit Dean with the look on his face; the man seems mortified that he’s made eye-contact with Castiel at  _ this  _ statement, one of starting a family and accidentally looking over to another man as he does so, and the writer can practically  _ see  _ the ‘no homo’ begging to form on Dean’s lips.

Instead of this, an ugly, grating choke escapes Dean’s dark pink mouth.

“Dean,” Castiel frowns. ‘ _ As if Dean would ever want kids,’  _ a voice in the back of Castiel’s head continues to both fume and laugh sourly, “I thought you’d left?”

“I did—” Dean fumbles, hopelessly. He was never a particularly eloquent person, and even less so now, it seems. “I just—I came back—” 

Well, clearly.

Castiel desperately wants to roll his eyes again, to prove to Dean of how Castiel feels nothing towards him now but resentment and glaring dislike.

“Dean made brownies,” Hael beams, interjecting into the sound of silence that had filled the air between the two men like smoke.

Oh.

Oh.

That’s what the smell was.

That familiar, limb-sweetening scent of something rich and warm and  _ good.  _ Something so very much like home it could make Castiel feel giddy with oversweet nostalgia.

“Oh,” Castiel nearly trembles, but he suppresses it for all that he is worth—which, it seems, is very little. “Thank you. You know, you don’t need to be  _ constantly  _ bringing food over—”

“No, obviously,” Dean’s head-shaking at this response to Castiel is near frantic. “I just—I just thought about what I was good at, you know? As in, what  could do for you—and it wasn’t much, but this—”

Michael steps into the room, radiating his usual sombre curiosity. Dean stops his babbling.

Perhaps being faced with Castiel’s oldest brother after  _ everything  _ is a little too much.

“Hael, I think we’re calling it,” He states in his usual firm, serious, though not unkind tone. “Rain’s started up again. Maybe there’s a storm passing through—oh,” He spots Dean and pauses, probably deliberately theatrically. While he’s certainly not on par with Gabriel, Michael definitely has a penchant for pointing out the drama of Castiel’s personal life with well timed  _ oh’s  _ and  _ ah’s.  _ “I thought you’d left?” He frowns curiously in Dean’s direction.

“I came back,” Dean answers, voice oddly thick and expression blank with panic.

“We can tell,” Castiel nearly sighs, rolling his eyes at Dean’s awkwardness. Honestly, what’s the other man’s problem? Castiel picks up the cups discarded about the room and sets them by the sink. Dean looks hurt.  _ For fuck’s sake, what right does  _ he  _ have to be hurt?!  _ “Why?” Castiel asks, next—because honestly, it makes no sense that Dean should want to return, and the question burns at him with its own desperation to be fulfilled through an answer.

“—I thought they—the brownies, I mean—” Dean is floundering. Totally, utterly floundering. And Castiel has no intention of helping him out, suddenly all the bitterness that seared through him nine years ago and was slowly diluted in his time in the UK has returned with a fury. “I thought they might make you feel better, I don’t—” 

Unfortunately, Gabriel enters, and  _ does,  _ though obliviously, help Dean out of his verbal-rut.

“What’s that smell? It’s  _ heavenly.” _

“Dean made brownies,” Hael fills in.

“Seriously?” Gabriel grins, nearly splitting his face open with how widely this forms. “I’ve missed you, Deano.”

This statement is followed by Gabriel pulling Dean into a far-too-dramatic and almost certainly too strong hug.

Dean flushes, offering one of his good-natured smiles.

“Thanks, Gabe,” He pats at Gabriel’s back a little awkwardly, but it hardly matters, because in the next second, Gabriel has already grabbed a brownie and stuffed it into his mouth.

Which, strange as it seems, feels like some kind of betrayal, truthfully. And it’s weird and irrational, but Castiel feels hurt that his brother could be so friendly towards Dean considering how much Castiel’s heart aches and his soul crumbles because of the green-eyed man.

“What?” Gabriel frowns at his younger brother, taking note of Castiel’s expression. “They’re good.”

Air gush of air is rushed, exasperatedly, out of Castiel’s sweeping lungs.

“So how’ve you been, Dean?” Gabriel turns back to the freckled man and settles onto a chair.

Castiel already knows a fair bit, though he’s sure not everything, because of Jimmy. Jimmy, who  _ must  _ have told Gabriel, as well. So why is Gabriel asking? All things considered, it seems like a little bit of a loaded question.

Dean is frowning, clearly troubled, as he returns to the dishes he had been washing, face red.

“I’ve been,” He swallows, and Castiel recalls how difficult it always was for Dean to open up; how he preferred to be doing things, like walking, or fixing, or building, as he spoke of matters of his heart. “...Uh, kinda…” He worries at his lip, line forming above the bridge of his nose and quaking in a particularly torn way, as if he doesn’t know whether he ought to share the truth, or tell a lie. “You want the honest answer, or the polite one?”

Gabriel barks out a laugh. Castiel only frowns.

“I’ve missed you,” The middle child of Jimmy Novak beams, expression swept up in affection and only slightly mocking nostalgia. “But seriously,” This expression falls, and is surpassed by one far more sombre, moving as the waves move over sand, one overcome quickly and smoothly by another. “How are you?”

Dean’s mouth twitches. He shrugs and looks down.

“I’ve been better…”

Well, at least he’s being honest, if admittedly very vague.

“What do you mean by that?” Gabriel presses.

Michael watches the proceedings with silent, wary, attentive eyes.

Dean visibly struggles for a few seconds.

“Well, you know how things are…”

“With Sam?”

Gabriel has apparently thrown tact and politeness to the wind, and it makes Dean squirm where he stands, sputtering as though he’d forgotten Castiel’s older brother’s incredible gift for candidness.

It’s time Castiel stepped in. Put Dean out of his misery.

“Gabe,” He interjects, effectively saving Dean where he stands. “Stop making him uncomfortable.”

Dean shoots Castiel a grateful look. For the life of him, the writer cannot bring himself to acknowledge it. It hurts too much.

“But what about you guys?” Dean asks, obviously attempting to recover both himself and the conversation. “I feel… I don’t know, like I’ve been so rude, like I should be doing more for you all—”

“We’re fine,” Gabe shrugs, but the response comes out too fast to sound either natural, or sincere. Castiel turns to gaze out the window, heart in his throat. He misses his father. He misses being eighteen. He’s twenty-eight. Nearly thirty. What can he say for himself and his accomplishments other than a few, mediocre novels and several classes of bored university students? Jimmy was already married with children at this age, and  _ obviously  _ he would tell Castiel off for thinking of  _ this  _ as a higher achievement than Castiel’s work, but…

Castiel longs for fulfillment, and knows, deep in the pit of his heart, that he should have worked harder to make his dad proud.

“Or,” Gabriel amends with an unusually nervous laugh, far out of his typical character, “as fine as we  _ could  _ be, I guess. Our dad was a good guy, so…”

His attempt at a laugh towards the end of this sentence comes out grated and utterly unconvincing, which he probably recognises, as the sound is cut stagnantly short.

“Well,” He sighs, now. “Y’know. We loved him.” He looks down, copper hair flopping slightly over his furrowed brow. “It sucks.”

A noise of confirmation emanates from Michael as he steps towards Dean to dry the things Dean has been washing. Castiel is tempted to sigh; shiva isn’t a time for  _ work,  _ and Michael shouldn’t be doing that, it’s almost disrespectful to Jimmy’s memory—

“Eccentric, but good,” The oldest Novak brother chuckles. Dean seems tempted to cry at this, though his lips lift up wistfully.

“He wasn’t eccentric,” Gabriel disagrees with a near-defensive glare.

“You say that because  _ you’re  _ eccentric, too,” Castiel points out.

“You’re a writer, Cassie. That’s like, the most eccentric profession  _ out  _ there.”

“What are you doing now, Dean?” Michael interrupts. “You still working in music?”

Dean is suddenly uncomfortable again.

“Uh,” He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “If you can call it that.” Castiel frowns at the way Dean’s laugh comes out, all hard and insincere and self-admonishing. “I had to give up my place at college for some… reasons,” He swallows, the sound thick and grim as oil. “And I sort of… I started working at The Roadhouse, y’know, Ellen’s place? At the bar, waiting tables, that kind of thing. And giving music lessons to kids. Guitar, drums, piano, whatever. Then I enrolled at community college,” He flushes at this. Castiel glares—is Dean really so ashamed of himself? At least on this front, Castiel cannot fault the boy he used to call best friend: Dean is a victim of dire circumstance, Castiel heard all this from his father: had to abandon all the things he did best, loved most, for the sake of the  _ people  _ he loved best and most: his brother, his mother. Why is he being so self-deprecating? “Which—y’know—”

He glances up at Castiel, as though the dark-haired man should have something to say at this; something scathing about Dean’s achievements or education, but now Castiel’s heart aches at the thought that Dean is so disappointed in himself and ashamed of the path his life has taken.  

“Well,” Dean nearly coughs out his next laugh, “I guess I was never like your brother,” He gestures to Castiel, whose very soul darkens at these words. He furrows his brow, troubled, as Dean continues. “Or any of you,” Dean chuckles, sounding nearly scared. “But I graduated, and Lawrence High took me on as a music teacher, so now that’s my main… y’know…”

“Occupation?” Gabriel finishes with a smirk at Dean’s awkwardness, unable to read into the pain that has caused it.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms.

“So you’re not writing music,” Michael states slowly with a frown, as though he is checking for confirmation of some most troubling fact.

“Not really,” Dean rubs at his neck. “I play at The Roadhouse, for extra money, you know? But I don’t write my own stuff so much any more.”

“So much?” Castiel repeats, before his brain can stop his mouth. Dean’s gaze snaps back over to him. He kicks himself internally, but he’s spoken now, so clarifies his question. “What does that mean?”

“Uh—”

“When do you play?” Gabriel interrupts with a childlike grin.

“I’m playing tonight.”

“Tonight?” Gabriel lights up like a city on a winter evening. “We should go!” He exclaims, sounding and appearing more like a child than ever.

Castiel gives his brother the filthiest look he can muster, attempting to shove all the hurt and resentment he feels at Gabriel’s actions and thoughtlessness, in regards to Dean, into this one expression.

He catches Dean staring at him, obviously hurt, in his peripherals, and his lip curls unkindly.

“I play most weeknights,” Dean informs, swallowing down the melancholic look that has flickered across his features. “Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays. Sometimes Fridays and Saturdays, if money is tight.”

“Why is money tight?”

“Gabriel!” Michael half-shouts, half hisses.

“What?” Gabriel protests, raising his hands defensively at Michael, who only groans, rubbing at his face in frustration at his younger brother’s social ineptitude—which, if Castiel can notice, must be pretty dire.

“Sammy’s counselling,” Dean rubs his hands awkwardly. “Mainly. It’s not cheap, and he’s… not great. Not happy, I mean. If you—I mean, that’s an understatement. He’s not employed, at the moment. Sort of…”

As he speaks, his face grows redder and his eyes grow wetter and wetter in bursts of feeling, until finally, Dean is crying.

Hael steps into action, taking hold of Dean’s shoulders, squeezing comfortingly. Michael drops his dishcloth, but only stands, staring, taken aback, clearly lost on what he ought to do.

“Shit…” Gabriel mumbles, still managing to look both amused and embarrassed.

_ “Gabriel!”  _ Michael seems a little relieved that he has found some way to be useful; even if that use is simply in telling Gabriel off for being so pig-headed.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Dean laughs tearily, waving Hael off with the gentle, persistent hands of a man totally embarrassed at sharing his feelings. “ _ I’m  _ crying, like what the fuck is wrong with me—it’s  _ you guys  _ who should—”

Well, at least Dean recognises that he’s being ridiculous in his self-absorption, even if he is unwilling to stop it.

Michael claps his shoulder.

“It’s fine.”

Dean’s head trembles as though it is tempted to shake in disagreement.

“So you’re working two jobs, then?” Gabriel asks.

“Three,” Dean shakes his head. He sniffles. “Music at Lawrence High, teaching shit like the trumpet, guitar, and so on, to kids privately, and then performing at The Roadhouse.” He sniffs and swallows.

“You have  _ any  _ free time?”

Dean laughs.

“Nope,” He shakes his head. “Not really. At all.”

This earns an awkward laugh from the group.

“Where’s your uncle Chuck?” Dean asks.

“Taking your brother home. He shouldn’t really—but like you said. Sammy was in a bit of a bad way.”

Dean squirms again, face going nearly purple with obvious feelings of guilt.

“I should get going,” He shakes his head. “I’ve been in you guys’s hair long enough, and I need to be in The Roadhouse in—” He glances up at the clock on the wall, and nearly flinches. “Forty minutes.”

“You okay for getting there?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Dean nods, looking down, away from Gabriel, who posed the question. “I’ve got the impala, outside Mary’s, so.”

“Cool. See you there?”

“You’re coming?” Dean asks Gabriel, almost hopeful, and certainly surprised.

“Of course,” Gabriel grins.

_ Typical. _

Also, total and utter  _ bullshit. _

Not that Gabriel is lying, just that he shouldn’t be promising shit like that: he knows how much Castiel hurts because of Dean, knows he’s supposed to stay here for the week, knows all of this and is still apparently deciding to prioritise Dean and his stupid feelings.

“You’re not supposed to leave the house, Gabriel,” Castiel frowns.

“Cas, you’re only saying that because—”

Oh  _ fuck  _ no. Gabriel is  _ not  _ going to bring up the fact that Dean is Castiel’s  _ ex- _ crush, because Castiel is  _ not  _ going to let him.

“Because it’s  _ Shiva,  _ Gabriel, and it’s what dad would’ve wanted.”

“What dad would’ve wanted? He would’ve wanted you to support your best friend!”

Bullshit! Again!

Frustration surpasses grief and blots out Castiel’s better judgement, which would have prevented him from saying what he does say, next.

“Dean is  _ not  _ my best friend!”

Well, shit.

The words are blurted, pretty much shouted out, thoughtless and careless enough to stun everyone present into total, bewildered, mortified silence.

It shouldn’t be a surprise to  _ anyone  _ in the room, but Dean still stares at Castiel like the writer has just killed a puppy, and everybody else stares at Castiel like he’s just killed  _ Dean’s  _ puppy.

Only Gabriel laughs. Fortunately, Michael proceeds to hit him, at this.

“Hey!”

“I should go,” Dean manages to choke out, half-humorously. “I’m sorry for—I won’t be stopping by, tomorrow, anyway. Sorry. I didn’t know about the Shiva thing—about you not leaving the house, I mean. I wouldn’t have asked, if I’d known. Sorry.”

If he’s good at nothing else, Dean is certainly a master at manipulating others into thinking  _ he’s  _ the victim,  _ he’s  _ the one that’s been hurt. Castiel burns with anger and resentment yet again.

“Dean—” Michael tries, but obviously, it’s to no avail. Dean has committed to his self-pitying act, and he leaves.

Gabriel and Michael both turn to glare at Castiel as he does so. Hael moves to awkwardly clean up the kitchen.

“What?!” Castiel protests.

“Why are you being such a dick to Dean?!”

“Do you  _ really  _ want to know?”

“Calm down, Cassie,” Michael rolls his eyes at his youngest brother’s raised voice, as if, yet again, he believes Castiel to be no more than a moody teenager.

“I will not!”

“It’s like living with an infant,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. If Castiel had anything to throw, he would hurl it at his brother without a second thought. As it is, and rather fortunately for Gabriel, his hands are empty and there is nothing reasonably throwable within reaching distance.

“Both of you,” Michael sighs, putting his hands out in a way that is especially tedious for Castiel just to  _ look  _ at. “Stop it.”

Castiel’s lip curls, but he stomps past both his brothers and upstairs, back into his old bedroom. Even if it’s immature, and proves Gabriel’s point about Castiel’s childishness to be very accurate indeed.

He cries into his pillow, hopelessly, helplessly, until there is nothing left to cry, and the sheets are damp, and Castiel is nothing more than a shell, empty and rattled. Hollowed. His heart hardly seems to exist any more, it’s gone so numb from pain.

Castiel wishes he could do the same.


	16. Such a Good Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late! I'm also sorry for not replying to lots of comments, and the very brief notes for this chapter - I promise I will get round to replies, I'm a little starved for time atm!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy, anyways.

**9 years, 6 months, 1 week, and 4 days earlier**

**(Saturday, April 7th, 2007)**

**Dean and Cas are 18**

 

The rest of the journey back was spent in awkward silence. Dean dropped Castiel home, and crossed the street to his own house.

Now Castiel sits in the bathroom on the top floor, too drunk to get up, crying. He’s knocked down a cascade of bottles in his state, but right now, he’s one of those weird kind of drunks who gets suddenly ready-to-blackout shit-faced in no more than a second, and can’t move, and doesn’t want to anyway, afraid that he’s going to puke.

Dean doesn’t love him, or even like him, and Castiel never had a chance. And never will. And that’ll never change.

He starts crying again.

All he can think of are Dean’s perfect eyes and smile and laugh and voice and jokes and kindness and thoughtfulness and wit and self-deprecation and artisticness, his creativity and his eyelashes and the way he fucking exhales, the way he walks, bowlegged, his forced swagger, the elegant and simultaneously masculine curve of his neck, the ache Dean can cause in the pit of Castiel’s stomach because of the green-eyed boy’s dark lips, the way he looks when he suppresses smiles, the way he sounds when he’s trying not to laugh, the way he’ll wink and grin after making cruddy jokes.

It’s all Castiel can see or think of.

He groans out another sob.

“Cassie?”

A soft, concerned voice sounds at the door, more familiar even than Dean’s.

Castiel looks hopelessly up, mouth gaping open, eyes stinging with tears that blur the figure of his father in the doorway.

“I’m sorry—” Castiel groans, unable to look up for guilt, head slipping forward to rest between his knees. He starts crying again, helplessly, loudly, unable to stop. “I didn’t mean to—”

But Jimmy is kneeling down beside him, lifting up his head and wiping away the tears at Castiel’s eyes, checking his pupils and his head for injuries.

“Have you hurt yourself? What’s happened?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel groans out again. “I didn’t mean to do this—”

“Castiel,” Jimmy says, quite seriously, holding his son’s head up, “you’re hardly the first child of mine I’ve had to clear up after when they’ve drunk some stupid amount of—” He sniffs Castiel for a moment and wrinkles his nose in distaste. “— _ Vodka?  _ Really?”

Castiel glares back his father, but doubts that it’s at all effective considering his current condition.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jimmy’s expression remains serious, though not with anger. “—At least Gabriel had the good sense to drink  _ good  _ spirits, not just the taste equivalent of  _ bleach.  _ And you choose vodka as your poison, of all things. The one time I caught Michael like this, he’d been drinking  _ gin _ , even, like some middle aged London businessman,” Castiel wonders if this is an attempt on his father’s part at a joke. “But I guess you  _ are  _ a teenager.”

“I’m sorry…” Castiel slurs out, looking at the white-and-grey marbled tiles of their bathroom floor. The patterns seem to be moving due to Castiel’s frankly awful state, and he’s never felt like such a mess, or such an idiot, in his life.

“Don’t be,” Jimmy shakes his head. “You’ve made a mistake, it happens, you’re safe. I’m glad you’re home, like this, instead of at some Frat party or some seedy bar. I only care that you’re okay.” He gazes intently into Castiel’s eyes a moment. It’s a look that Castiel cannot return.  _ “Are  _ you okay?” Jimmy asks. “Why are you crying?”

Which, naturally, starts Castiel immediately off again.

“I’m just being stupid—” Castiel shakes his head, cheeks heating the tears that fall onto them.

“No,” Jimmy interrupts. “Not stupid. Never stupid. What’s wrong?”

Castiel takes a shuddering breath.

Can he really tell his dad about tonight?

No.

No. He can’t tell Jimmy about his sexuality, therefore nor can he tell his father about loving Dean, nor his feelings of abandonment and heartbreak as a result of Dean’ lack—or rather, total non-existence— of love towards him.

“Should I call Dean? He went to the party with you, didn’t he? Will he still be awake?—”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head quickly. “No, don’t. Not Dean. Not Dean—”

“Why not?” Jimmy frowns. “Did you two get in a fight?”

Castiel falters.

Well, not exactly—and fighting isn’t why he’s sad, anyway; nor is it why he feels so broken inside. But Dean  _ is  _ the cause of the aching, cold sense of sorrow that permeates Castiel’s insides with something both sharp and blunt, that sears and bruises at his flesh like a spiked mallet.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “Not a fight…”

“Then what’s happened?”

Castiel takes a shuddering breath.

Is this where he comes out to his father? This isn’t exactly what he had imaged when he had envisioned himself sharing as core and vital a part of his soul as his curiosity, or his sarcasm, or his spirituality with the man, bar Dean, he has always loved best.

Or should he just lie, make up an excuse, stuff that part of him back down inside his chest and forget about it for another couple of years?

“Dean…” Castiel starts, then thinks better and looks down, shivering.

No. No, this is not where he comes out to his father. Not while he’s lying, heartbroken and drunk, on the cool marble of his bathroom floor, unable to hold back a sporadic stream of tears that leave his eyes without warning and with both impossible, mortifying ferocity and trembling melancholy.

“Dean?” Jimmy repeats. The crease of a frown-line forms between his eyebrows, a soft canyon on his face that asks more questions than Jimmy’s simple-worded response would seem to.

Castiel feels stupid.

“...Doesn’t like me…” He finishes.

Jimmy laughs.

Why is he laughing?

“Doesn’t  _ like  _ you? Cassie, what are you talking about? Dean’s your  _ best friend,  _ of course he likes you—he spends  _ all  _ of most of his days with you—”

Jimmy catches the look on his son’s face and stops, voice trailing off, limp.

“... _ Oh,”  _ He falters, frowning quietly.

Castiel steels himself for whatever will come next.

“And you…  _ Like  _ Dean, then?”

Castiel stares at the floor, lip curling sharply, eyes prickling.

“Just Dean?” Jimmy asks, when Castiel doesn’t answer. “Or other boys, too?”

Castiel shrivels up.

“I don’t…” He coughs once. “I kissed another boy tonight because Dean said he was straight.”

“So you told him how you felt?” Jimmy enquires—Dean, I mean?”

Castiel frowns up at his father.

“ _ No,  _ of course not.”

“So how do you know he’s straight?”

“He  _ said  _ he was straight—and then he went and made out with Lisa Braeden—” Castiel realises that he has started crying again. Jimmy pulls him into his arms.

“So this is why you’re crying?”

“Don’t start,” Castiel nearly snarls, trying to tangle himself out from his father’s arms.

“No, I’m not saying anything—just that—” Jimmy pulls back and stares thoughtfully at his son. Castiel’s vision is still blurred by alcohol and the swim of his tears and he can hardly make out the thoughtful, kind, processing look etched upon his father’s face. Jimmy sighs. “Maybe you’ve got it wrong.”

“I haven’t,” Castiel glares down at the ground with finality.

Jimmy sighs again, though this one isn’t exasperated, but rather affectionate.

“Maybe you ought to get some sleep.”

He squeezes Castiel’s shoulders with both hands.

“Fine.”

Castiel’s heart is still breaking and Jimmy has done nothing to amend this.

Except, Castiel realises, he just came out to his father, and Jimmy didn’t care. Not at all.

Or rather, he  _ did  _ care, cared about Castiel and his happiness, and was maybe, admittedly, a little patronising in his response, but only affectionately so, only out of love, only out of maturity and understanding and a lack of comprehension of the infinite, oxymoronic complexities of teenage life.

So maybe today  _ hasn’t  _ been total shit, after all.

“Whatever it feels like, now, Cassie,” Jimmy starts, voice caught between firmness and tenderness, “the friendship you have with Dean is precious. Don’t jeopardize it over a girl he made out with, and a boy you kissed. I assume Dean knows that you’re—”

Castiel nods weakly.

“And did he mind?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Not exactly, I guess.”

“Well,” Jimmy smiles reluctantly, as though a little troubled. “There we go. I guess he’s a teenage boy, so he’d always be a little—”

Castiel rolls his eyes at his father’s words.

“Anyway. Friendships like you and Dean—they don’t come around every day. Or even every lifetime. So cherish him, in any case—even if he loves you in a different way to the way you love him.”

Castiel’s brow knits together with worry and gnawing sadness. He stares up at his father with big, drunken eyes. The eyes that look back at him are as familiar as his own, and Castiel wonders what else he has inherited from his father, besides an frozen azure stare and dark brown hair that curls in the rain.

“Whatever the rest of the world says, friendship is just about the most important thing out there. It’s a way of  _ choosing _ family. Cherish it. It’s precious. And don’t let go of it easily. Don’t let go of it at all, if you can help it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, please comment etc.! The next chapter of The Devil's Epitaph ought to be up soon, hopefully tomorrow or the day after.
> 
> Next chapter Dean and Cas properly talk!


	17. Travelling Alone

 

**Present day**

 

Those words echo through Castiel’s mind, rattle around his skull and make it feel hollow and bitter.

_ “Whatever the rest of the world says, friendship is just about the most important thing out there. It’s a way of choosing family. Cherish it. It’s precious. And don’t let go of it easily.” _

What would Jimmy say, if he could see Castiel, now?

What would he say of Castiel’s interactions with Dean today?

Inevitably, he’d gaze at Castiel with that oceanic look of quiet disappointment—and just thinking about it has made it difficult for Castiel to swallow; his throat constricting around his windpipe so that breath is only just obtainable.

He slides off his bed and onto the floor to face the bottom shelf of his old bookcase. Still well stocked, in Castiel’s bookcase, between  _ The Sonnets of Michelangelo  _ and the Oxford edition of  _ King Lear  _ rests something precious and secret.

It was only a notebook, but it was a notebook given to Castiel by Dean, on his eighteenth birthday.

_ “For when you’re a famous writer and need something to take your notes in,”  _ Dean said with a wink. Well, Castiel  _ sort  _ of used it for its intended purpose.

He flicks it open. The cover is magnetic, and across it stretches a dragon of green—the perfect replica of Dean’s eyes, in fact—and teal and gold.

_ “‘Cause I dunno if you remember this, but I think it was a mutual love of dragons that actually made you like me in the first place.” _

Well, of course Castiel remembers. Of course, he could never, can never, forget. Is cursed to remember Dean and everything about him for the rest of his life.

The things he wrote in this book; the once-precious, still-private things, reek of the entitled teenage pretension he had always convinced himself he never once possessed. Only with the gift that retrospect provides is Castiel able to see how conceited and cliche and self-indulgent he once sounded.

So he scrawls a poem into the book, now, angry and scribbled and leagues away from anything satisfactory—but it certainly feels good for the sake of  _ writing,  _ not for bettering his style, nor for publishing, nor for practise, but for alleviating from Castiel’s chest the tightly bound feelings for Dean that he used this notebook for, in the first place.

Then he kicks at the floor, slips the notebook back into place, inconspicuous on the rest of his bookshelf, and slides back into bed.

He sleeps just fine after that. 

 

…

 

“Cassie, you have  _ got  _ to see Dean play.”

“You left the house?!”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re _surprised,”_ Gabriel rolls his eyes. “I was gone all of last night, didn’t you notice? Where did you think I was?”

“I was  _ asleep,  _ Gabriel—”

“Fuck, stop acting so high-and-mighty. You’re the worst  _ ever.” _

“No,  _ you’re  _ the worst ever,” Castiel pursues Gabriel into the kitchen when he obviously attempts to flee. It’s the end of their fifth day of shiva, and of course,  _ of course,  _ Gabriel couldn’t wait another half a week to go out and dig up Castiel’s past. 

Castiel is actually amazed it took Gabriel this long to go see Dean perform, considering the fact that Dean told them about his gigs  _ days  _ ago, which was practically years in Gabriel-Standard-Time.

“Shiva is important, Gabe, you can’t just half-ass it and leave the house whenever you feel like— _ or  _ whenever you get bored. That’s not how it works. It means  _ seven,  _ you sit for  _ seven  _ days. Our  _ dad  _ died—”

“God, Cassie,” Gabriel nearly snarls, rolling his eyes and turning suddenly on his heel to face his younger brother, “I  _ know.  _ Believe it or not, it’s something that’s actually quite difficult to forget, so stop fucking  _ nagging  _ me about it, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wrong with  _ me _ ?!”

“Yeah, you,” Gabriel rolls his eyes, slumping on a chair by the kitchen table.

“ _ You’re  _ the one refusing to respect dad—”

“No, that’s you,” Gabriel bites accusingly.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel wears a rare scowl. “Dad  _ loved  _ Dean, and you’re treating him like shit—”

“How am I treating him like shit?!”

“Not going to his show—”

“He performs every night, Gabriel! It’s hardly a ‘show’! And we’re not supposed to leave the house! And anyway, me and Dean aren’t friends anymore!”

“And there you go,” Gabriel throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “You’re being such a cruddy person—”

“You don’t know anything,” Castiel glowers. “So how about you just keep your mouth shut, for once?”

“Stop acting like a parent! You’re my  _ younger  _ brother—”

“I get that you’re not religious, Gabe, but dad  _ was—” _

“This isn’t about—wait, you think I’m not religious?”

“You film  _ pornos—” _

“I don’t film, I  _ direct— _ ”

“You guys,” Michael has appeared at the door, rubbing his eyes sleepily. When he brings his palms back to his sides Castiel can make out how bloodshot is irises are, and winces on instinct. “I get that it’s only nine PM… But— _ seriously?  _ Me and Hael were getting an early night, the twins were actually asleep for once—”

Castiel’s jaw clenches, though he looks away. Gabriel hangs his head.

“Sorry…” He mumbles.

“What are you two even fighting about, anyway?”

“Cas thinks it’s his right to act like a parent—”

“Gabriel left the house!”

“Cas is a snitch!”

“Gabriel keeps digging up my past!”

“Cas keeps acting like a spoilt child!”

“ _ Spoilt child?” _

“Castiel,” Michael groans, pulling a chair out from under the table and slumping at it. “How is it that Gabriel is digging up your past?”

Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but only a weak sigh emanates from him. He slumps, unable to articulate the violation he feels. Gabriel huffs out a noise of triumph, for which Castiel shoots him just about the filthiest look he can muster.

“He went to see Dean play,” Castiel explains, voice small, face heated. For all Gabriel’s teasing, Castiel really  _ does  _ feel like a sullen child, in this moment. At least he realises it. “I wouldn’t—it felt like he was digging up my past, without my permission.”

“Gabriel seeing your  _ friend  _ play the guitar felt like a violation?” Michael frowns, and although he certainly doesn’t mean to come across patronising, it definitely rubs off that way to Castiel.

“I’ve said Dean isn’t my friend…” Castiel grumbles, looking down.

“What happened, Cassie?” Michael asks, frown weaving tighter at his features. “You—you never talk about it. What—”

Castiel looks up, only to realise that the burn of his eyes was actually the steady, sure press of tears.

Now they blot over onto his cheeks and have such a hold over his windpipe that he can’t breathe.

And all of this, of course, only fills him up with the bitterest, most unforgiving kind of anger. He hasn’t cried over Dean since he was  _ nineteen years old.  _ Okay, maybe a little more recently than that. But still. He thought he was  _ done  _ with crying over the boy in the green house opposite theirs.

“Well,  _ I  _ think Dean misses his friend,” Gabriel interjects, matter-of-factly. Castiel turns to him with hatred burning away the tears in his eyes.

“Nobody asked you what you think, Gabriel,” He spits. Michael huffs out a sigh and pushes out his chair from the table, getting up from it and leaving. Apparently he’s given up, already, on resolving this fight between his two younger brothers.

Gabriel shrugs and follows suit, not glancing back to Castiel, who at last, slumps at the kitchen table, and starts to sob in earnest.

And what is apparently only half an hour later, though it feels like a lifetime, Castiel gets up, grabs his keys and leaves the house. And he drives and drives, mindlessly, distantly, head and heart as stormy as the sky above him—until, before he knows it, he’s reached  _ Harvelle’s Roadhouse _ , its nostalgic tin-and-wood front and name lit up in red and yellow-gold lights. Ugly as it is, it still stirs something unwillingly reminiscent in Castiel’s blood to look at.

All roads seem to lead to Dean, Castiel huffs, half-bitterly. The other half of his sigh is filled with something nameless that hangs ominously with sincere emotion over Castiel.

What would Jimmy think of his coming here? And why  _ has  _ Castiel come here?

And what is it that he expects to find?

The only way to find an answer is to go inside, Castiel guesses. And so he kills the engine and gets out of his car, staring up at the roadhouse before pushing open the door and entering cautiously.

He treads so lightly he reminds himself of a cat, pausing in the doorway and peering around. It’s loud and untidy and exactly as it has always been; people bustling at the bar and slouched over drinks at small tables scattered about the floor. The lighting is dim and yellow, some heavily built, bearded men are playing darts and laughing loudly. Castiel bristles and for a moment is tempted to leave—but then he spots Dean.

Dean, who is slipping a typical khaki shirt over his black tee, not buttoning it up, stands behind the bar, totally unaware of Castiel. The amulet Dean has always worn around his neck, that his brother gave to him so many christmases ago, is just visible under the clothing and in the ruddy lighting of the room. Castiel watches quietly as the man he used to call friend nods at Ellen Harvelle’s words to him, far enough away that Castiel can hear none of their conversation though he can imagine Ellen’s tone by the look on her face. Dean looks downward, lips parted slightly, still nodding, before walking round the bar, pushing through the crowd softly, expression serious and distant, up to a small, elevated, makeshift stage at the very back of the room..

It is at this point that Castiel slips inside The Roadhouse, into the crowd totally unnoticed, and keeps to the shadows formed by other people and the corners that provide him enough cover to not be seen. He cannot think why he chooses to do so.

He watches as Dean adjusts a cheap microphone stood in front of a faded, simple, wooden chair. Tapping at the mic before taking a seat on the precarious looking stool and picking up a guitar that leans beside it, Dean’s expression remains sombre and distant: certainly not moody, but troubled and almost childish in a way that is so familiar to the writer after knowing Dean so intimately for so many years.

It is only after marking the oh-so-familiar expression on Dean’s face—though Castiel cannot think as to what could have caused it—that he notices something else.

_ Oh. _

That’s—Castiel’s heart clenches. What does this mean?

That’s the guitar Castiel gave Dean for his eighteenth birthday.

“Heya, guys,” Dean coughs, half-nervously, into the mic. Jo Harvelle drops a stool next to Dean’s and places a generous glass of something amber-brown next to him. Dean nods gratefully at her, though he is clearly a little distracted. Castiel stays in the shadows. “This is, uh—I’m gonna start out with some old classics, just covering them—and then,” He swallows, smiling self-consciously. “I’ve actually been writing a couple of original songs, recently. So I thought I’d play you a couple of those. Sound good?”

Several people murmur in confirmation, Castiel catches Ellen smiling encouragingly at Dean from the bar. Dean smiles grimly back at her, and starts up.

As much as Castiel teased Dean for his music taste in their youth, the songs Dean chooses aren’t the kind of stuck-up, metalhead tunes for assholes who drive motorbikes and get in fights with strangers. They’re bluesy, the best of Dean’s Classic Rock loves, thoughtful songs played with an undeniable, though softly-spoken talent that hardly seems to believe it is there.

Does Dean really not believe that he is any good?

Looking at him now, it would seem to be just so: Dean appears half-embarrassed, half-chagrined, as though he is silently berating himself for not playing perfectly enough, softly enough, emotively enough.

Once upon a time, Dean playing music was enough to send Castiel’s head reeling with adoration. Castiel  _ always  _ believed Dean to be absolutely perfect. And Dean may not have agreed, but he certainly thought himself to be half-decent. So what happened between then and now to change Dean’s mind do drastically?

Dean shifts seamlessly into another song; Castiel recognises it vaguely—Dean must have played it when they were… well, friends. A pleased murmur ripples through the crowd, like a pebble thrown into a vast lake, as though this is a regular number of Dean’s, and a popular one.

A few smile at their tables, tap their index fingers against the wood of the bar or the glass of their beer bottles; other stare—either at Dean, mesmerized—and he is admittedly a very pleasant sight—or at their drinks, as though being enchanted slowly into a peaceful and melancholic slumber. And Dean’s fingers move like clockwork: pluck, pluck, picking, only more elegant and less mechanical, a strange combination of the precision of machinery and spontaneity and elegance of running water.

The green eyed man doesn’t even look out at his audience, only stares at the floor, lips constantly parted, gaze distant and glassy as one caught up in recollections of the past. The yellow-brown light of The Roadhouse spatters across his face and makes it glow an almost unearthly rusty gold.

The song ends, Castiel catches himself and breathes again. The room, everything from the people to the glasses on their tables, seem to be suspended in perfect stillness. Then the clapping begins. Dean flushes, smiling, nodding in thanks, and tugs the mic down.

“This uh—this next one was a real favourite of my dad’s,” Dean’s expression is caught between that of surprised grief, and regretful loneliness. “He sure wasn’t perfect,” Dean swallows, and appears to be caught off guard by the sincerity of his own words, “but he had a damn good music taste.”

The audience laughs, the sound rising up unevenly like waves on a calm, open sea.

And Dean begins to play Wild Horses—which was always a favourite, even of Castiel’s. Even more so now, with the thoughtful, methodical way Dean sings and strums. His tongue catches his lip a moment and his expression grows harder, almost sad. Why should he be sad?

In another moment, bitterness sweeps across it, Dean tapping at his guitar in the way he always used to as he played, by way of improvising percussion. The crowd begins to sing along, the hardness in Dean’s sorry features is washed away; he swallows hard before beginning the final chorus.

With the way he stops playing, it for a moment looks as though that is it, the whole show, finished in just three songs—but then Dean speaks again.

“So like I said,” He still neglects to look further than the first row of faces that compose his audience, “I’ve been writing a couple of original songs, lately—and they suck dick,” Dean laughs suddenly, self-deprecatingly, “but I thought I’d share ‘em. I don’t know. This is called Travelling Alone.”

So starts the most painful song Castiel has ever heard. The kind of pain that grips at the base of the heart and pulls, pulls, pulls with every string played and note sang. The kind of pain that aches and grows and stifles breath, constricting the throat, tying itself around the neck.

Dean sings a song and weaves a story, one lonely and vague and more humbly poetical than anything Castiel has heard before. He’s staggered; he’s never been able to capture such unpretentious, earnest feeling in any of his writing. And here Dean is, combining poetry with music, expression flushed as though he honestly believes this remarkable piece of art to be embarrassingly bad.

A new kind of silence has settled over the people of The Roadhouse. They do not hold their breath, though they hardly seem to breathe at all: each inhale and exhale is soundless and deep, flooding lungs and emptying them, so intense is the feeling caused by Dean’s work.

What is Dean singing about? A long lost love, Castiel thinks. Definitely—but who? Broken promises and missed chances and the foolishness of youth—is this Lisa that Dean has captured in song? His first real girlfriend and, most likely, first love?

Dean’s voice is gruff and velvety. It’s the voice that Castiel has avoided thinking about, as best he can, for nine years. But he can’t avoid it now. And now, now, it’s deeper, richer, filled itself out like water poured into a vessel. Dean is, despite everything, a true artist. At least in this moment.

Which is why, when the song ends, Castiel steps forward.


	18. Dream of Love

 

**Tuesday, February 26th, 2002**

**Castiel is 14, Dean is 13**

 

“And then they started shouting,” Dean rolls his eyes, knees tugged up to his chest, arms wound around them. Sitting on the floor of Castiel’s bedroom, Dean rocks back and forth, occasionally, betraying his frustration and anxiety. His expression worn and worried, Dean appears almost too tired to acknowledge the intensity of his feeling. But Castiel can make it out. “Like,  _ yelling.  _ And I—”

He frowns and breaks off.

Then he shrugs, expression clearing like the wind sweeping away gray clouds, like a cold wind blowing sand and dust away. It is as though he has resolved not to feel his anguish—or rather, not let Castiel know that he feels it—and starts again.

“So I came round here. I wanted to get away from it all.”

“And your brother?” The other boy enquires, quirking his head to the side.

“He’s downstairs with your dad. They got talking about some weird intellectual stuff—I don’t know, I totally zoned out and just came up here. I don’t think I even  _ remember  _ coming up—but that’s—anyway. I told Sammy to get out of the house, with me, if that’s what you were asking.”

Castiel nods.

“That’s what I was asking,” He confirms.

Dean huffs out something that sounds a little like a laugh.

“You know, he’s  _ my  _ brother, not yours.”

Castiel smirks. Only Dean can make him smile this often, even following sombre conversations such as these.

“I know,” He shrugs. “But I’ve always thought that I should be an older brother.”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles. He leans back on Castiel’s floor so that he is lying down, and picks up a book from the bottom shelf of Castiel’s bookcase, not reading it, just fiddling with it. He turns it round and round and over and over and flips through the pages—obviously listening to and enjoying the whirring sound they make skittering over each other—playing with the frayed edges of the cover and the loose sheets inside it. “You’re pretty good at rationalising feelings, which is cool. That’s why I feel like I can go to you with this stuff, you know?”

“So it’s not because we’re friends?”

Dean barks out a laugh.

“God, Cas, calm down. It’s everything. The whole package.” Dean grins, Castiel wrinkles his nose. “That’s you, Cas. The whole package.”

The older boy rolls his eyes.

“You’re never going to get a girlfriend if that’s how you flirt.”

“Ouch.”

“So you don’t know if your parents are done fighting?”

“You want me gone?”

Dean’s question is posed innocently, casually, but Castiel notices the way that the younger boy’s eyes flick up to his, big and green and hesitant; the crease in the space between Dean’s eyebrows, the worry lines folded subtly on his forehead, betraying the concern that he feels.

Dean has stopped fiddling with the book, now.

“Not at all,” Castiel says. “I just thought you might want to stay over.” He peers at Dean. “To avoid it, you know.”

“I—Sammy—”

“Could stay too,” Castiel shrugs.

“Yeah, but in here?” Dean wrinkles his nose.

“He used to stay in your room while I was sleeping over  _ loads—” _

“Yeah, and he was a toddler, then, and got nightmares. He’s not a little kid any more.”

“So he could stay in Gabriel’s room?” Castiel suggests. “What are you scared of? Your little brother cramping your style?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Something like that. And don’t say things like  _ cramping your style.  _ It doesn’t suit you. You sound weird.”

“Stop policing me.”

“They’ll probably be done by dinner,” Dean glances out of Castiel’s bedroom window, to his house, opposite Castiel’s. Something fretful has wormed itself back across Dean’s mossy gaze. “I mean, they  _ should  _ be, right? They’d been going for  _ hours.” _

Castiel grinds his teeth against each other softly. He peers at Dean, troubled. Dean’s parents have fought for hours before, but this one feels different. It’s been going for  _ days,  _ really, and he’s surprised that it’s taken Dean this long to ask—or rather, imply—that he would like to stay round at Castiel’s home for the night.

“I’m sure it’ll end and be fine,” Castiel resolves to say. Dean glances at him, obviously unconvinced.

“They’re not happy,” He shakes his head. “I know it sounds stupid, but I can tell. I can  _ tell.” _

“I’m sure you can,” Castiel replies honestly.

Dean sighs and curls himself up.

“So I’m wondering, would divorce suck  _ so bad?  _ Like, I know it would suck, and especially for Sammy, but…” Another sigh emanates from Dean’s lips. “Maybe I’m being stupid. Everyone fights, right? But I just wish it would  _ stop.” _

“You’re not being stupid,” Castiel shakes his head. “I suppose… marriage is difficult? What are they even fighting about?”

Dean shrugs. Pink creeps across the gold of his freckles.

“I can’t really tell.”

Castiel knows Dean better in many ways than he even knows his own brothers. So, naturally, he knows when Dean is lying.

But pointing this out, obviously—especially right now, with Dean’s emotions and the fragility of his person scrawled unknowingly across his face—would probably be counterproductive. But it hurts for Castiel to see his friend looking so troubled; and he certainly  _ does  _ look troubled. So Castiel places his hand at the junction between Dean’s shoulder and the curve of his neck and squeezes. Dean’s skin is soft here, and hardly freckled at all—certainly less freckled than it would be in summer. The boy glances up at Castiel at the touch, troubled, mouth open.

“It’ll work out, Dean, I promise.”

Dean pulls an unconvinced face far more mature and world-weary than Castiel is comfortable with.

“How?”

Castiel presses his lips together and swallows thickly. He’s had his share of sorrows, true, but none like this: Castiel’s troubles were not puzzles to be solved but truths to be dealt with and accepted. How can he advise someone on how to  _ avoid _ sadness?

“What are you worried about?” He asks, finally. “That they’ll get a divorce? That they won’t stop fighting?”

Dean shrinks up a little more.

“I don’t know,” He admits, tone wrung out with defeat.

“Well, whatever it is—and whatever it is that happens—you’ll still have me. And my family. And your brother, of course. And I know my dad will  _ always  _ want to look out for you.” Dean looks vaguely comforted by these words. “And your parents love you. They ought to be acting for your interest, always.”

At this, Dean’s smile fades. At this, his face darkens.

Castiel wonders what he said wrong.

“Yeah.” Dean’s brow furrows, heavy. “Right.”

“Where were you on the weekend?” Castiel asks, trying to change the subject at Dean’s troubled features. “I didn’t see you at all, and when I called round on Sunday, you weren’t there. What happened?”

Dean flushes, the ugly kind of flush that indicates more than just embarrassment.

“I don’t know,” He seems to be biting down on, and pushing forward, a scowl. “I was busy. Do you  _ have _ to see me every weekend?”

Castiel draws back, unnerved.

“No,” He shakes his head, forcing himself to rationalise his own upset at Dean’s bitten-out response. “I just  _ like  _ to see you—and I thought you liked seeing me,” This part comes out more bitter than he intended, and he regrets saying it immediately. “Why didn’t you say anything about not being around?”

Dean kicks at the floor.

“I don’t know,” He repeats. His face is darker than it was before.

Castiel sighs. He knows a lost battle when he sees it.

“Well. Whatever it is—you can stay over, tonight, obviously. So can Sammy. For as long as you want. Dad will understand.”

Dean looks up from the carpet again. In all honesty, he looks touched, touched at Castiel’s gesture—as if it should be of any kind of surprise to him that Castiel would want to comfort him.

“Are you—are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, Dean.”

Perhaps Castiel sounds a little exasperated in his response, because Dean flushes and apologises.

“I’m sorry—”

“What for?”

“I don’t know, I feel like I’m being a burden, I feel like I’m pissing you off—”

“You’re not annoying me, Dean. And you’re certainly not a burden. Can you trust me when I say that?”

Dean doesn’t reply seriously. But at least he smiles. Smiles and punches Castiel’s arm playfully.

“You sound like a wimp,” He chuckles.

“Look who’s talking,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “I’m effectively babysitting you.”

Another punch. This one harder. But it’s followed by a hug.

 

…

 

Dean comes round that evening with Sammy at six thirty. Dean’s eyes are red, and he doesn’t speak much. Sam looks worried and speaks perhaps a little too much to make up for it. They eat dinner, play a game with Castiel’s dad at the table, talk for a little while, and help him tidy everything away. Dean and Castiel do the drying, Jimmy washes all the pots and pans, Sam brings all the things from the dining room table to the kitchen. Fairly soon after this, Sam goes up to bed in Gabriel’s room, Jimmy handing him a book to read.

“It was one of my favourites when I was your age,” He smiles, and Sam smiles back shyly. “I hope you like it. Reading always helps me get to sleep.”

“Me too,” Sam nods, brown hair flopping into his eyes. “Thank you, I’m sure I’ll love it. Thank you.”

Castiel’s father chuckles.

“You’re very welcome.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

“‘Night, Sam,” Dean calls, but he plays with his hands distractedly and doesn’t look up from the ground.

Jimmy turns back to the boys as Sam bounds up the stairs.

“What do you guys want to do now? Play more games?”

“I guess Cas is a little tired…” Dean laughs, self-abasing. “I’ve been keeping him company all day, so…”

“I’m fine,”  Castiel shakes his head, though he is oddly touched by the fact that Dean seems to recognise how easily his friend is worn out by company.

“Cartoons?” Dean asks. “Do you have much homework to do?”

“I think I’d better be asking  _ you  _ that question,” Castiel chuckles, but he is already making his way into the living room to turn on the TV.

“Homework is overrated,” Dean rolls his eyes. “But I could work while watching?”

“I think both of us know that isn’t going to work at all,” Castiel smirks. Dean sighs in defeat.

“Fine. I’ll work if you do. And  _ then  _ TV?”

“Sounds good,” Castiel sits down. Dean follows suit.

When both of them turn upstairs to bed, it’s a little late, and Dean is blinking sleepily. His eyes are cloudy, no longer with sadness, but with exhaustion. He seems tired in the way one often is after a long, horrible day, filled most likely with an awful lot of crying, and even more suppressing of tears.

“How are you feeling?” Castiel asks as they climb the stairs, Dean making his way in front of him, the lights a brighter orange than they usually are, Castiel thinks.

“Better, thank you,” Dean smiles, only a little grimly, as they round up to Castiel’s room. They change for bed, and Dean seems sad and worried again, looking down, not joking and chattering as he normally does.

“You won’t want to shower?” Castiel asks. Dean shakes his head and looks at the curtains, drawn over Castiel’s window, as though he is wishing he could look through them and at his own home, to see if his parents are still fighting.

“If I do, I’m afraid I’ll never want to get out,” He laughs honestly, and Castiel doesn’t quite understand what his joke is.

“Were your parents still fighting when you went back?”

Dean shakes his head.

“No, they’d died down. Just weren’t really talking to each other. It’s like I walked in, and I’d entered a new Ice Age. So cold. No love—” He frowns and stops speaking. “But then they started up again, pretty soon. Because of me.”

“Because of you?” Castiel raises his eyebrows, concerned and very much alarmed.

Dean makes an exhausted noise and shrugs out the room.

“I can’t be bothered to… Are we gonna clean our teeth, or what?”

“Right,” Castiel follows Dean into the bathroom. “Sorry.”

Normally, when brushing his teeth, Dean is talkative and funny, making jokes and humming and bouncing on the balls of his feet as a result of his constant stream of unquenchable energy. But not this time. There is no humming, no laughter, no toothpaste bubbles around his mouth, hardly any mess at all. Just eyes that are too old for their sockets and a sorrowful expression.

Dean seems even more troubled when they climb into bed.

They always share beds; have since they were children—but Dean seems reluctant, now.

“What, did I kick you too much last time?” Castiel asks. Dean fakes a smile rather obviously.

“You don’t kick,” He shakes his head.

“Then what’s up?” The other boy enquires.

“I was just thinking,” Dean sighs. But he doesn’t finish his sentence.

“About…?”

“They’ve been fighting for years. I wonder where it started? How can people just fall out of love like that? And  _ have  _ they fallen out of love?”

Dean settles in beside Castiel, facing him as both of them lie on their sides.

“I don’t know,” Castiel admits. “And I’m sorry I don’t have any of the answers.”

“That’s okay,” Dean quirks his lips upwards. “I guess I’m just glad I have you as a friend. And I’m glad to have your dad to look out for me and Sammy. And  _ you  _ to look out for me and Sammy. And I’m sorry for—if I—being weird…”

“You’re not being weird, Dean,” Castiel says quietly. Dean’s eyes soften, then flit down, off Castiel’s own gaze. Castiel has no idea what the other boy could be looking at—but something jolts down the whole of him and nearly makes him gasp with surprise, a muscle spasm made of of lightning and sugar that warms him and terrifies him. But it’s gone as soon as it comes and all Castiel can think is  _ what was that?  _ And he’s totally distracted from wondering about what it is Dean is looking at.

“Thanks, Cas. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

Dean turns and switches off the lamp beside Castiel’s bed. Castiel falls asleep and dreams of lightning over green and gold waters. When he wakes up, his arm is over Dean’s chest and it dances with something other than just pins and needles.


	19. Another Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They talk! At last!

**Present Day - Saturday 22nd October 2016**

  
  


“ _ And you didn’t leave me, I know _ _   
_ _ But I’m still left _ _   
_ _ All by myself _ _   
_ __ And travelling alone.”

It’s shit, like, totally shit. So shit that the eyes of the crowd in front of him look more than just glazed over. Dean had a good thing going, performing here, and now he’s fucked it up with one self indulgent performance of his own shitty music. What the fuck is wrong with him?!

Dean’s strum-plucking stops. Silence. His head starts pounding with embarrassment, the world swims before him, he can hear his heartbeat in his own ears. And then something, some movement amongst the total stillness of the crowd, catches Dean’s eye.

Oh, God. It can’t be.

His head starts pounding harder, so hard that he almost falls off his stool, so hard that he practically drops his guitar, so hard that he cannot hear the crowd’s clapping—why would they clap? Weren’t they standing in awkward silence only a moment ago?

“I’ve uh—” Dean leans forward shakily, swaying even as he sits with his feet planted on the floor, “I’m gonna have a break—but I’ll—” Oh, fuck, Cas heard, Cas heard, Cas has heard the song in which Dean practically confesses his undying love for the guy. What will he think of Dean, now? “I’ll—” Why is speaking so hard? What the fuck is happening to Dean? Why is he so broken? “Be back soon,” He manages, and just about gets off the stage without collapsing.

Jo pushes her way in front of Dean before he is able to escape behind the bar into one of the storerooms.

“Dean, what’s up? Are you—”

Dean pushes past her—as gently as possible, though it probably isn’t gentle enough with the way his head is throbbing and his heart is hurting—and presses the door of the storeroom tightly shut after him, leaning up against it and sighing deeply, trying to rebalance his breathing. In, out. In, out. Is this what a panic attack feels like? Dean’s hands are shaking and clammy. Dimly, over the white-hot throbbing of his head, he can make out the wood of the door he is leaning against bouncing as though it is being pounded at by a person on the other side.

And as the burning at his head ceases, and the blood in his ears stops racing, Dean realises that Jo is knocking at the door.

“What is it?” He grumbles, rubbing at his aching head.

“Are you okay, Dean?” Her voice is muffled by the wood, but Dean can make out how frustrated she is by the exasperation that laces her tone and the near-sigh at the end of her words.

“I’m—fuck, get me a drink, would you? Please?”

Another sigh.

“Please, Jo,” Dean groans. “Something strong. Thank you.”

“Whatever,” Is all that Jo replies with, but Dean hears her footsteps receding and guesses that she is getting a drink, like Dean asked.

So Dean stands straight a moment, breathing deeply, steeling himself, re-grounding himself, and then opens the door of the storeroom.

He peers about the crowd behind the bar—fortunately they all seem to ignore him—but there is no sign of Cas. Dean seeps with relief. Or does he seep with disappointment? He can’t tell. No, no, he  _ can  _ tell. He’s relieved, of course. Cas doesn’t want to speak to him, why should he?

But then… Why did Cas come, tonight? Didn’t he know Dean would be here?

“Your drink,” Jo reappears in front of Dean and presses a glass of something dark and smoky into his hand. These words are spoken with exasperation, but her next are soft and even sympathetic. “Sit down,” She pushes Dean round the bar with a hand on his arm quite successfully; despite Dean’s legs, which feel as though they are made of stone, and her tiny stature. “Here,” She guides Dean into a chair at the end of the bar, swatting someone—Ash, who seems to be doing piss all during his shift—away from it. “Sit. Drink.”

Dean nods distantly and thanks her. Jo pats his shoulder and moves away to pick up the empty glasses on another table.

Oh, God. What a nightmare. Dean shakes his head and tips the entirety of the glass’s contents down his throat.

“Another,” He pushes the glass toward Ellen, behind the bar, who rolls her eyes but obliges him.

“Another,  _ please,”  _ Ellen corrects, handing the glass back to Dean. “And that’s your last drink of the night. I’ll be driving you home if I don’t think you’re sober enough, by the end of the night. Understand?”

“Yes  _ mom,”  _ Dean rolls his eyes, but can hardly look at Ellen as he does so.

Dean wouldn’t have fucking  _ thought  _ about performing his song if he’d thought that Cas would come tonight. He’d hardly have been able to get on stage if he’d known Cas was coming, anyway.

Cas saw—Cas  _ heard  _ Dean confessing his undying love for the man in song. And Cas won’t feel the same way—obviously won’t feel the same way, after everything. And he’s made it pretty clear by his treatment of Dean every time he’s seen him.

Dean tips back half of his drink. When he breathes out, it burns his nostrils in a pleasant kind of way that seems to promise to numb the ache in his chest. He picks up his glass again, about to finish his drink, when—

“Careful, Dean, that’s at least your third drink of the night.”

Dean practically jumps out of his skin with fright.

“Jesus—” He spins around, heart hammering all over again, totally panicked like a deer in the presence of a hunter, and is met by the brightest blue gaze he has ever known.

“No, it’s Castiel,” The other man corrects, sitting down next to Dean with the beginnings of a smile sparking at his eyes. Is that—was that a joke?

It’s been nine years since Castiel made one of those to Dean.

“I—” Dean doesn’t know what to say. _ “Cas—” _

“That’s me,” Castiel’s eyes are doing the sparking thing, again, as though this is another joke—but Dean hardly has the time to confirm that this is truly what he thinks he sees, because Castiel turns to the bar. “Could I get a beer, please?”

“I—” Dean still can’t speak. “What are you doing here, Cas?”

“Visiting you, obviously. You asked if I wanted to see you perform—” Castiel frowns thoughtfully for a moment. “Gabriel convinced me, somehow, that it was a good idea—that you wanted to see me, I mean—but I think I must’ve been wrong, judging by how uncomfortable you look to be seeing me—”

“No,” Dean shakes his head quickly, nearly knocking his glass over as he swivels round to face Cas properly in his chair. “No—I just—I thought you weren’t allowed to leave the house? I thought—”

“Gabriel is very persuasive,” Castiel shrugs, and smiles wryly. “You know that.”

“Or listen to music—”

“Or sit in ordinary chairs,” Castiel gestures to the stool he sits on. “Yet here I am. Fucking up.”

A frown knots at Dean’s features.

“I thought you didn’t want to see me…”

“That song you wrote,” Castiel starts, changing the subject, eyes troubled. Dean’s gut clenches immediately. Well, this is just about going to be the most awkward conversation of his life. “It was… I didn’t know you could write like that. Obviously I knew you were good—but it was like  _ poetry.” _

Dean flushes.

“What?”

Cas—Cas liked the song? Dean’s mind starts reeling with possibilities. Does this mean Cas understood what it meant? That he feels the same way? Could he  _ ever  _ feel the same way?

Is this the beginning of the rest of Dean’s life? 

“You must know what I mean,” Castiel nearly laughs. “It was the most poetical thing I think I’ve ever heard.”

“I think—I think you’re overselling it, Cas,” Dean flushes. “You’d know more about poetry than I would, I just write dumb songs for drunks—”

“Not at all,” Castiel shakes his head, so quickly and firmly that Dean stops short. “It was— _ honestly— _ it was the most earnest thing I think I’ve ever heard. It was beautiful.”

Dean’s insides start dancing and he has to bunch his hands together and look down.

“I don’t think so…”

“Well I do,” Castiel states, matter-of-factly. “It was about Lisa, I suppose?”

Dean looks up quickly, mouth open, no sound coming from it.

If he’s being totally honest,  _ now  _ he feels nothing but the hot flash of disappointment.

“No,” He shakes his head quickly, frowning.

“Oh,” Castiel frowns also, though thoughtfully, instead of in the troubled, almost despairing manner that Dean does. “But I had thought—all that talk of missed chances and—and you not being the one who broke up with her?”

“I never told you who ended it,” Dean states, voice dull. He continues to frown. Castiel catches his expression and Dean watches as the other man draws back from him, both physically and emotionally, as though he has been stung suddenly.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, “I guess you didn’t. Who  _ is  _ it about, then?”

Dean kicks at the floor.

His face heats.

“I dunno,” He shrugs. “I just… I wrote it.”

There’s no point in telling the truth, now. Cas won’t—will never, could never feel the same way. 

Castiel stares at Dean for a few more moments, then speaks.

“Well,” He says, voice oddly even and controlled. “It was very good. I’m sorry for coming uninvited, it must have been a pretty nasty shock for you to see me out in the crowd—”

“Yeah— _ no,”  _ Dean shakes his head quickly. Castiel’s expression is a little bewildered. “No. I mean, yeah, but not—not like that. I don’t know. I—”

“I get it,” Cas shrugs. Silence. “Will you be playing any other original songs?”

“You’re gonna stay?”

“Would you mind that?”

“No—not at all—just that—shiva—”

“Ah, I’m out, now,” Castiel smiles, shrugging again. “I might as well make the most of it.”

Dean manages to crack a smile.

“Right. Cool. I’ll, uh—” He tosses back the last of his drink. “I should get back up there. But—maybe you’d like to stay and talk, after? If you’d like?”

“Whatever you want, Dean.”

So, obviously Cas is just being nice. And probably—obviously—doesn’t care for Dean like he used to. And yeah, maybe Dean feels a little embarrassed and disappointed about that, but still, when he gets back up on stage, Dean plays all of the songs he’s written over the last couple of days, in the hope that it’ll form some kind of confession.

He’s feeling braver, and drunker, and more terrified than he has in nine years. He plays his guitar like he wants to play Castiel’s heart: tenderly, familiarly, like the hug of an old, long-forgotten but now remembered— _ affectionately  _ remembered—friend. Which, Dean hopes, is what he is.

He finishes the drink Jo left for him on the stage at the end of his fourth song. Cas is staring at him, but his gaze is unreadable—and Dean seeps with disappointment again. Castiel really has no idea? How could he have  _ no idea?  _ Dean scarce poured his soul into each of those songs, and—  

“So you should write poetry,” Cas has appeared at Dean’s side again as he steps off stage. Dean would jump out of his skin if he wasn’t feeling so downtrodden.

“Ha.”

“I mean it.”

“You’re the poet, Cas,” Dean sidles toward the bar. Screw Ellen, he’ll have another drink.

“I haven’t published  _ any—” _

“You know what I mean.”

Dean slinks behind the bar and pours himself a scotch, before plopping himself back down on one of the stools.

“I don’t think I do.”

Dean grunts and rolls his eyes, tired and miserable. Should he be kicking himself that he’s suddenly being so cold with Castiel? When just minutes ago, Dean was singing every word he could scrape together that was half as beautiful as the man beside him? When Dean was playing his heart out in the hope that it would form some kind of confession of undying love, and apology for  _ everything,  _ that Castiel would understand?

But that’s just it. Cas didn’t even fucking  _ notice  _ what those songs were about.

“Should you be drinking that?” Castiel asks, squinting suspiciously. “Aren’t you driving home?”

“Yes,  _ sir,”  _ Dean replies dryly, but this only earns him a light shove.

And damn, it nearly chokes him how familiar that is.

Castiel seems to notice, too, because his hand is off Dean’s arm in a heartbeat and the man withdraws himself suddenly. Apparently some things are still too painful. Dean can hardly blame him.

“What’s got you in a bad mood?”

Dean looks up at Castiel, despondent, but nonetheless surprised by the blue eyed man’s question.

“I—” He stammers. “—Sorry.”

“That’s fine,” Castiel shrugs.

“You wanted to talk?” Dean asks, half in hope, half in disbelief.

“I  _ did _ ,” Castiel murmurs thoughtfully, looking down at the wooden surface of the bar, sticky with spilt beers and cruddy varnish and marked by the rings of cold drinks.

“But not anymore,” Dean replies, not even needing to ask this as a question: he knows the answer. Cas experienced a moment of weakness, of vulnerability, in which he considered opening up. But not anymore.

“No, I still want to talk,” Castiel frowns, looking up at Dean, almost defensively. “Just about… I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. Grief is a funny thing, you know?”

Dean tries to reply, but finds that his throat is dry and has constricted to something so tiny not even the slightest sound can escape it. As it is, even breath is coming and going with great difficulty. So all he can do is nod at his once-best friend’s words.

“I think…” Castiel sighs. Dean isn’t convinced Cas knew what he was going to say before he even started speaking, something very unusual for the guy, who always deliberated over every syllable he spoke. “Well. Of course you know about grief,” Castiel says, very reasonably and coolly, as though he has resolved to be rational about the whole thing—something so damn typical of the dark haired man that it causes a familiar hollow ache in Dean’s chest just to think of.

“But not like this,” Dean shakes his head—and it’s just about the most earnest thing he’s managed to say to Cas since—well, since  _ everything.  _ “This is…” Dean looks down and finds himself clenching his jaw to stop the spill of tears.

“I should have asked if you wanted to be involved in the mourning process a little more—well, directly, I suppose,” Castiel sighs. “I know how much my father meant to you—I mean, he was almost a surrogate father to you—”

“No,” Dean shakes his head quickly. “He was  _ your  _ dad.  _ Yours.  _ I’d be an asshole if I let you do anything like that. He—I loved him, so much, of course—but you—” Dean struggles for his words. “—That wouldn’t be fair,” He manages, finally.

Castiel’s features soften.

“That’s kind of you.”

Dean can’t think that it is, but he smiles weakly.       

“I could—I could write a song for him, if you’d like?” He asks, hopelessly, then realises what a ridiculously dumb idea this is. “I mean—” He stammers quickly, “I get it if—that’s kind of stupid, I know—but I thought—”

Castiel laughs and smiles.

“I wouldn’t want you to write anything you felt as though you were forcing.”

“I wouldn’t be forcing anything,” Dean answers quickly.

“No?” Castiel asks. He presses his lips together. “That’s kind. He’d like that, I’m sure. But you do it for you, Dean. Not for him, or… anyone else. If it helps you process things, then—”

“I hate all this bullshit talk of processing,” Dean glowers.

Cas doesn’t even look offended over Dean’s sharply bitten out words.

“I can’t say I do, either,” He admits. “But there we go.” He gets up.

“You’re going?” Dean asks, suddenly terrified. Was this all that their talk was ever going to consist of? What kind of talk is that?

“I am,” Cas nods, digging in his pockets for some money for his drinks. “I’ve been gone long enough, and considering how I shouldn’t even be out, right now—”

“But—”

“You say you wrote all those songs yourself?” Castiel asks, interrupting Dean, who, taken aback, frowns and nods.

“Yeah,” He confirms suspiciously. “Why—”

“That’s interesting,” Cas answers, looking down thoughtfully, not for the sake of breaking eye-contact with Dean, but for the sake of exploring his thoughts.

“Interesting?” Dean repeats, standing, too.

“That’s what I said,” Castiel answers, uselessly. Dean nearly sighs with frustration. “I’m off,” He smiles, dropping twenty dollars onto the bar. “You probably shouldn’t be driving, should you?”

“I’m fine,” Dean shakes his head, even as he feels giddy with drink and exhaustion.

“Well. You take care of yourself,” A grim smile flits across the other man’s features, and he moves to turn away, but Dean manages to speak before he does.

“CanIcomeandvisityoutomorrow?” He asks, just about as fast as is humanly possible, he thinks.

Castiel’s head inclines immediately to the side, perplexed, as it always used to whenever he was bewildered or intrigued by something.

“Pardon?”

“Can I come and visit you, tomorrow?” Dean repeats, managing not to blurt his words out with terror, this time. “I—get if you don’t want to. But I thought maybe—”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel nods. He gazes at Dean thoughtfully a moment, then says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Goodbye.”

“Seeya—bye—” Dean waves, but Cas is already walking toward the door.

Dean slumps back down onto his stool and stares at the receding back of Castiel.


	20. When You Read to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this another piece of the puzzle ? Or just some cute fluff ? Or both ? Who knows? Time will tell.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy :)

 

**Sunday, 15th May 1995**

**Dean and Castiel are both six years old**

 

“I just think it’s kinda weird, Mary. Don’t you think it’s kinda weird?”

“No,” Mary shakes her head firmly. “Isn’t Dean allowed to have friends? Is that so bad?”

Dean peers round the door of the kitchen quietly and peeps at his parents. They’ve been talking to each other like this more and more, like there’s something angry and sharp in the air between them but neither of them want to admit just what it is. Dean feels guilty for it and he doesn’t understand why. His mommy and daddy don’t kiss like they used to, John doesn’t wrap his arm around Mary’s waist when they watch TV any more, sometimes John doesn’t sleep in his mommy and daddy’s bedroom but will sleep on the couch, or in the car instead, or worse, won’t come home at all.

Dean’s fingers curl around the wood of the door, painted white, a little chipped. He picks at where some of the paint has become too dry and falls off the frame of the door with ease, worrying at it as he listens to his parents.

“Well, I think it’s weird. Real fucking weird. And I’m not saying he’s not allowed to have friends, but—like  _ that?” _

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re  _ sure _ , are you?”

“Yes, John! God!”

John seeths for a moment, then regains control.

“Well, I know. I know what it’ll turn into if we don’t—” John winces, as though choosing his words carefully. “Intervene, I guess. I know what it looks like, and I don’t like what it looks like. That kind of thing—it’s inappropriate, Dean sleeping round the boy’s house, every night. Not right.”

Dean’s parents stand on opposite ends of the kitchen table. Mary’s hands are on her hips. Dean nearly flinches at the mention of his name, and his whole insides seem to coil up with guilt.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve  _ told  _ you!” John bursts out, then cools off, after a moment of deep, restrained breathing on his part. He closes his eyes and speaks slowly, this time. “I want to start going to church again. Regular, like—not like we’ve been doing things, lately.”

“You think you’re going to solve this with religion?”

“So you  _ do  _ think there’s a problem!” Dean’s father exclaims triumphantly.

“Stop twisting my words!” Mary raises her voice back at John. “That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what did you mean? You said  _ solve,  _ right? So you think it’s wrong, too?”

Mary sighs, desperately, and runs her hands through her long, golden hair.

“I didn’t know you were like this, John. I thought—”

“What?”

“That you were a good father! That your  _ son  _ would be more important than—”

“So what do  _ you  _ think, Mary? Don’t you believe  _ any—” _

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Mary shakes her head quickly, bright eyes even brighter with the obvious press of tears. In the strange light of the sun, muted by violet curtains as it strobes into the kitchen, these eyes look more lilac than they do green-blue. “But I know that I love my little boy—and that I might have been wrong about stuff, and that my parents might have been wrong about the stuff that they taught me, and that being a good parent means  _ admitting  _ I was wrong—”

Dean doesn’t like this. His insides feel like they’re crumbling, and turning into the dust the builds up on the windowsills of their house when Dean’s mom forgets to clean them. He wants to go over to Cas’s, and right now.

But he doesn’t step away from the door quick enough, it seems.

Dean’s mother catches sight of him with her watery eyes, sees Dean attempting to slink back behind the door he has been peeping round for what feels like an age. And she paces quickly over to him and sweeps him up in her arms, crying in earnest, now.

“Oh, Dean,” She smiles through tears, “you heard me and your daddy’s silly fight, huh? Don’t worry, baby, it’s okay—”

“Mary,” John rolls his eyes, voice that warning tone it often takes when he’s a few moments from telling Dean off.

“No, John!” Mary exclaims suddenly, making Dean flinch in her arms. She doesn’t look at her husband, only glares, trembling, at the floor between them. John sighs pointedly. “Dean, how about you go play outside? Your daddy and I have just got a few more things—”

“What were you fighting about?” Dean asks, staring up at his mother. She presses her lips together and appears suddenly withdrawn, placing Dean down onto the ground, again.

“Dean,” She says, “go play outside.”

Dean looks up at his mother, then at his father, and wants to cry. Neither of them look at him; nor do they look at each other.

He kicks at the door and stomps down the hallway, face hot, eyes hotter.

“Dean,” His mom calls after him in reprimand for his attitude, but John replies,

“Just leave it, Mary.”

Dean opens and slams the door and sits on his front porch step, staring out at his front yard. He doesn’t know how long he does this for, only that the sun burns at his eyes, bright orange-gold, and that through the glare he can make out the front door of the Novak’s house opening and closing.

“Hello, Dean,” Comes a voice to his left. Dean doesn’t start at it, and is almost surprised by how little Castiel’s presence startles him.

“Hey, Cas,” He sighs, chin resting on his palms.

“You look sad,” The boy observes. Dean paws at the ground with his foot.

“ _ Feel  _ sad,” He replies.

Castiel sits down next to him.

Birds sing faintly in the trees around them.

“Oh,” The boy frowns, not looking at Dean, but out at the yard, too. There’s something so comforting about Cas’s quiet strangeness, something which Dean has grown so accustomed to and adoring of that he thinks sometimes it might fill him completely and come spilling out of him at any moment. “That’s not good. Sorry.”

Dean shrugs.

“I wrote a story, today,” Castiel smiles. “Want to hear it?”

Dean perks up.

“Yeah,” He nods. “Always.”

Castiel stands.

“It’s over at my house, in my notepad. You want to stay round for the day? Daddy’s making lunch and it’s gonna be tasty, he said.”

Dean smiles.

“Sure,” He nods, and smiles wider when Cas catches hold of his hand and tugs him down the steps.

“Have you ever seen a salamander before?” Castiel asks, still pulling Dean along. “Because I think I spotted one down by one of the little streams in the woods.”

“What’s a salamander?” Dean asks. Castiel clambers up the porch steps of his own house, letting go go Dean’s hand, and Dean follows after him.

“I’ll show you next time we go to the woods. We can try and catch it! They look like little dragons.”

Dean beams at Castiel’s words.

“Are we gonna build that treehouse, too?”

“Of course,” Castiel nods vigorously, opening up his front door. As he steps inside, he calls out unusually loudly. “Daddy, can Dean stay for lunch?”

“Absolutely!” Jimmy Novak calls back from the kitchen. Dean beams at Castiel.

“Where’s your story, then?”

“In my room,” Castiel climbs up the stairs. Dean bounces after him. “Follow me!”

Castiel pushes his door open and clambers over his bed, reaching to the bedside table on the other side of it, from the massive pile of books, notebooks, paper and pens he keeps there. He picks up a notebook at the top of the pile, with brown lined pages and a plain cover.

“Come and sit,” Cas kicks off his shoes and crosses his legs under him, sitting at the top of his bed.

Dean follows suit: shoes off, then clambering onto Cas’s sheets.

Cas flicks through the book, bright blue eyes rippling with intensity. They always do this when he’s concentrating, and Dean always watches as he does this, fascinated. He can’t help it, has never been able to, knows that Castiel is the best, most brilliant, most awesome, most beautiful person on the planet. And he chose  _ Dean  _ to be his friend.

“My daddy helped me with it. I think it’s really good.”

“They always are,” Dean beams. Castiel’s cheeks go pink.

“Okay,” He smiles, blushing only a little. “Here it is.”

Dean stares, paying rapt attention. Castiel draws a breath in, long and steady and maybe a little theatrical, and begins.

“A long time ago, when boats were still being sent across the seas to search for new land, when water was drawn up from wells and rivers, when people knew nothing of the world outside of their villages, there lived a little boy who could sing so sweetly even the shyest birds would come down from their nests to listen.”

Dean grins.

“What was his name?” He asks. Cas looks like he wants to pretend that he’s annoyed, but all he does a smile reluctantly and let out a semi-fake sigh.

“His name was Dean Winchester, and despite the fact that he  _ always  _ interrupted his friends, they seemed to like him well enough.”

Dean bursts out laughing, quite forgetting his parents fighting and their raised voices and his mother and father’s mutual frustration with him.

“And what were his friends’ names?”

“He had a younger brother called Sam, but he was very little and spent most of his time eating and playing with blocks, sometimes following Dean around, when he could keep up.”

“And what about—”

“Shh, Dean, don’t interrupt. Now, Dean lived in a little village far away from cities and towns. On one side of it, there lay a tall, long mountain, whose tip seemed to be scraping at the sky. On cloudy days, the top couldn’t be seen at all, and it looked like a giant piece of green-gray steel stabbing into the blue of the sky. On the other side of the village ran a river, deep, though not very wide. The villagers had all that they needed, but they were not happy: fish from the river, fruit from the trees on the mountain—but it was only ever just enough, and never plenty.”

Dean, enraptured by Castiel’s story, can only sit and stare.

Ordinarily, getting Dean to sit still longer than twenty seconds is a task in and of itself—but with Cas, apparently this kind of thing is  _ easy. _

“There came to be word of a giant passing through the lands, whose footsteps were like great trees falling, and whose sighs were like the wind rushing through buildings built closely together. The villagers grew fearful, for in those days, when giants came, they demanded gold or riches or grand foods to appease them; and if they were not given these, they would take the youngest children in the village, and eat them.

“Dean was not the youngest boy in the village by any means—but his younger brother Sammy was of the three smallest children, as was a little girl named Joanna—”

Dean gasps, worried, and Castiel’s eyes begin to dance.

“—A little girl named Joanna who Dean loved like a sister. So, hearing this news, he knew instantly that he had to stop the giant, at any cost.

“Now, Dean’s father was an elder of the village, and attended council meetings on occasions just as these. And so, desperate to know what was to be done—what  _ could  _ be done—to save the life of his little brother—Dean crept to the round, stone house where these meetings were held, and peeped through the narrow slats of the windows, to the elders’ faces illuminated by candlelight.  _ ‘What are we to do?’  _ One asked, long beard twitching with worry.  _ ‘We have never faced a giant before, and are so small in number, unable to fight if it comes to it. Yet we have no gold, nor treasures of any kind—are we doomed to lose our children?’ _

_ “‘No, surely not,’  _ Another man shook his head. But someone else interrupted him.  _ ‘We  _ must  _ give them up! If we refuse, then the giant will be sure to kill all of us!’  _ A quarrel broke out, a babble of voices turning into an electric jabbering—of those arguing to give up the children, those arguing to fight, to run, to attempt to trick the giant—others thought they could somehow scrape together enough food and gold to appease the giant, but the most anyone had was copper and a few loaves of bread and smoked fish. But it was those arguing to give the youngest of the village over to the giant who managed to shout the loudest.”

“And what about Dean’s dad?” Dean asks. “What was he saying? Did he want to give the children up, too?”

Castiel peers steadily at Dean.

“What side would you like him to be on?”

Dean feels strangely vulnerable.

He shrugs.

What  _ would  _ his dad do, if he was in this position?

“Uh—maybe—maybe he’d have an idea for how to fix the problem, without doing any of those other things?”

Castiel’s smile distracts Dean from this worrying thought.

“Did you read it from upside-down?” He asks, sounding very impressed. Dean feels tempted to lie, just from the expression on the other boy’s face, but knows that Castiel knows him well enough to recognise when Dean isn’t being truthful.

“No,” He shakes his head, honestly. “I guessed. But was I right?”

“Well, sort of,” Cas replies.

“What does that mean?”

“One of the village elders spoke up,” Castiel looks down at his notebook once again and continues reading aloud to Dean. “‘ _ What if we were to overcome the giant, some other way?’  _ His question angered many present; their faces turned a deep red in the yellow flicker of the candlelight.  _ ‘But how would we ever do that? We have said that way are too small in number and strength nearly a hundred times! What weapons do we have that could possibly defeat a giant?!’ _ —And so the clamour nearly started up again—but the elder—Dean’s father—remained quiet, until it died down.”

Castiel’s voice changes for this character, goes deeper and so mysterious it gives Dean pinpricks all up and down his forearms.

“‘ _ When I was a young boy, my mother—’” _

“Cassie, Dean!” Jimmy’s voice echoes through the hall and up the stairs of Castiel’s home. It nearly makes Dean jump out of his skin, so bewitched had he been by Cas’s talking. “Lunch is ready!”

Dean nearly wilts in disappointment.

“Down in a second!” Castiel calls back, and slides off his bed. He turns to Dean. “Aren’t you coming?” He asks, frowning gently.

“Yeah,” Dean replies grudgingly. “But I…”

“We’ll finish the story, after lunch,” Castiel answers Dean’s question before he’s even asked it. “But for now, I’m hungry.”

Dean presses his lips together and nods. Despite his disappointment in Castiel’s storytelling being cut short, he’s already feeling happier.  _ Way  _ happier. And now he gets to spend a whole day with the other boy. He smiles reluctantly, although it seems to grow more and more sincere with every passing moment, and follows Cas out of the room.


	21. Blue Mind

 

**Present Day - Saturday 22nd October 2016**

  
  
  


It’s three AM, and Dean ignored Ellen’s advice about not drinking any more than he already had. So now he sits in the passenger seat of her car, head spinning indignantly, angry at him for doing this to himself, Ellen glaring ahead at the road in front of them, streetlights flashing across the window in the way they were when Dean was driving to Jimmy Novak’s funeral.

He looks down, expression twitching, lip trembling.

It feels as though his lungs have been ripped clean out of his body; and he feels nothing other than an overpowering guilt washing through him, screaming at him for doing the wrong thing, every chance he gets.

And Ellen isn’t saying fucking  _ anything  _ about Dean’s breakdown, about how Dean suddenly decided to get flat-out drunk the  _ moment  _ Cas walked in.

Rain patters on the roof of the car.

Dean shrivels up a little and wants to inhabit as little space as possible. Ellen glances at him and sighs, and Dean all but writhes with guilt.

When she pulls up to Dean’s apartment block, she stops him from opening the door and getting out.

“Dean,” She holds a hand out to Dean’s arm, and fresh guilt and self-hate surge through Dean all over again. He prepares himself, grimly, terrified, for whatever onslaught it is that is about to come. “I’m not angry at you.”

He has to do a double take.

“You… What?”

His speech is slurred and slow, the lazy kind of drunk that has given up on just about everything, completely.

Ellen rolls her eyes.

“I’m not—well, I’m pissed, obviously, Dean—and I hope you’re not gonna be making a habit out of this, but…” A hand comes to squeeze at Dean’s arm. “I’m so sorry about everything, Dean.”

Dean looks down and nods, eyes burning with tears, grateful for Ellen’s kindness, but certain he doesn’t deserve it. More guilt sifts at his insides.

“It’s okay, Ellen,” He mumbles, as kindly as he can. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Dean, it’s in my nature to worry about you.”

This comment makes the guilt inside of Dean start gnawing away and the walls of his body.

He wants to tell Ellen about everything, about how lost he feels, about how he’s scared that he’s  _ not  _ getting by, about how useless and grief-stricken he has become, of the smack he found in Sammy’s drawers, of how he loves and misses Castiel like death—of  _ everything  _ that happened between him and Cas, nine years ago. Better yet, he could start at the very beginning: tell her everything, about the first day he and Castiel met, about their playdates, their sleepovers, their friendship, so close, that Dean thought his heart might explode. Of how John recognised this, and hated this. Of how he taught Dean, almost without words, to hate it himself. Of how despite Dean’s hatred for this part of himself, he could never erase it; much less stop himself from loving Cas with every fibre of his being.

Instead, Dean says:

“Sorry for getting drunk.” He stares downward. “Feel so stupid,” He mumbles, ashamed.

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Ellen replies, matter-of-factly. Then she reconsiders. “Maybe a  _ little  _ stupid,” She corrects, “but I’m glad you’re sorry. And like I said, I’m  _ seriously  _ hoping this is the last time anything like this will happen. Do you understand?”

Dean nods, ashamed.

Ellen squeezes at his arm again, obviously marking his expression.

“You… I saw that you spoke to Cas, tonight?”

And this is the thing the drives Dean to wrench himself free and open his door, getting out of Ellen’s car.

Ellen gets out after him.

“Dean, don’t be like that—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean’s lip curls, and he makes a gesture at the air between him and Ellen, as though wishing to push her away.

“No,” Ellen rolls her eyes, “of course not.”

“Fuck you.”

Ellen glares. Dean kicks clumsily at the ground, not sure where to look, trying desperately to meet Ellen’s gaze, despite the fact that his keeps shifting aimlessly, before he finally turns and trudges towards his building.

“I’m gonna forgive that, too, kid—but you’re on some  _ damn  _ thin ice.” Ellen walks alongside Dean, and keeps him from falling off the sidewalk. Dean looks down in shame.

The last thing he wants to do right now is cry, and yet it seems like this is exactly what he’s  _ going  _ to do.

“...Sorry.”

“That’s fine.”

Ellen’s reply is short and firm, slightly cold—which makes Dean think that actually, it must  _ not  _ be fine—but Ellen starts talking again and interrupts his drunken, self-pitying thoughts.

“So Castiel came, tonight.”

Dean nods. There’s obviously no getting out of this conversation.

“Yep,” He confirms shortly.

Ellen eyes him cautiously.

Dean pushes open the door to his block and sighs at the  _ lift broken  _ sign, turning to start up the five flights of stairs he has to climb, now. It’s as if Ellen fucking  _ planned  _ this surprise deep-and-meaningful.

“How are you two?” She asks as they begin climbing up.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are you still friends?”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“No,” He bites, after a moment’s silence. “What do you think?”

“I thought tonight, you might have patched things over.

Dean nearly snarls.

“Obviously not.”

First flight of stairs down. How many are left? Right. Four. Dean can make it through this.

“Why obviously not? Why did he come to see you, if you aren’t friends?”

“Ellen, can’t you just drop it?” Dean nearly moans. “I—I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I just asked a question, Dean.”

“I don’t know!” Dean exclaims. “I don’t know Cas, anymore! I don’t know how he thinks, what he likes— _ what  _ he thinks… I don’t know any of it! We’re strangers, now, and nobody can seem to accept that!”

“ _ You  _ can’t seem to accept it, Dean,” Ellen points out.

“I have  _ too _ accepted it,” Dean grumbles.

Second flight of stairs down. Three more left. Still seems like too many.

“No,” Ellen shakes her head, “you’ve  _ resigned  _ yourself to it. Big difference.”

“God, Ellen, what are you? My therapist? Stop acting like you’re my mother.”

Ellen looks hurt at this, and turns away.

Why is Dean like this?

Why does he push  _ everyone  _ he loves away?

“I’m—” Dean looks over to Ellen, ridden with guilt, but she shrugs him off.

“I get it, Dean,” She says, softly. “I overstepped. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“No,” Dean tries again. “I’m just being a dick. I’m sorry.”

“You’re in mourning,” Ellen shrugs. “You’re allowed to be a dick.”

“Not to you.”

Ellen’s lips twitch reluctantly.

“That’s sweet.”

Dean stares, despondently, at nothing in particular.

Three flights of stairs climbed. They start at the fourth. Dean takes a little while to speak again.

“Can I tell you something, Ellen?” He asks finally, voice surprisingly small and self-conscious.

Ellen looks up. She frowns curiously.

“About what?”

“Not Cas,” Dean shakes his head, knowing what it is Ellen is thinking of.

“Then what?”

Dean’s lips don’t seem to want to open in answer. He stares grimly at the stairs ahead of him, and they finish climbing the fourth. One more to go. Can he get it out in time?

“I’m—I think—I  _ know— _ that Sammy’s taking dope, again.”

Ellen stops walking. She stares at Dean, not surprised, not so much upset, and not even disappointed. She looks  _ pityingly  _ at Dean.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Dean.”

Dean looks down.

“Yeah,” He mutters. “Me too.”

“And you know because…?”

“I found it,” Dean answers. “In his apartment.”

“And does your mom know?”

“I told him to tell her, but…” Dean shrivels with guilt, though he doesn’t know what exactly it is that he feels guilty about. “...I doubt he will.”

“How are you feeling about it?”

Dean sighs.

“Pissed? I don’t know, what do you  _ think _ ? I feel like it’s my fault, like I’m a shitty big brother…”

Dean trails off to stop himself from growing either angrier, or even sadder than before.

Ellen peers sadly at Dean.

Her hand comes up to squeeze at his shoulder.

“Come on,” She says, and begins climbing up the stairs again.

Dean starts again, too, though much slower than before.

“I’m gonna visit Cas tomorrow,” He finds himself confessing, as they round up the fifth and final staircase.

“Oh,” Ellen replies, simply. Dean almost feels angry at her for having so little to say about this revelation, one which feels so very deep and personal, for Dean. “For shiva, right?”

“Right.”

“And… How are you feeling about that?”

Dean makes a vague gesture.

“Y’know…” He mumbles, uncomfortably.

“Nervous?”

Dean’s face seems to crumple in on itself.

“Maybe… yeah…” He admits, face hot with both drunkenness and embarrassment.

Ellen stares at him earnestly as they walk towards his door.

“Would you like me to come with you?”

Dean nearly gapes back.

“You—why?”

Ellen’s face softens, even if it grows exasperated.

“Why do you think, Dean?”

He looks down, face prickling with an equal mix of shame and gratitude.

“Thank you…”

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

She hugs him as they stop by his door. Dean presses his face into Ellen’s shoulder.

“I love you, Ellen.”

Ellen only laughs.

“Yes, I know, honey,” She answers. Dean chuckles a little drunkenly, but even more sadly. “Just talk to me a little more, okay? I worry about you.”

“You don’t need to—”

“It’s my  _ job  _ to worry about you.” She squeezes, then lets go of Dean. He pulls back feeling cold.

“Thanks for taking me home…” He looks down, but Ellen tuts disapprovingly.

“It wasn’t a problem, Dean. Don’t worry about it. Now, what time should I be picking you up, tomorrow?”

“You’ll be picking me up?” Dean wrinkles his nose, patronised.

“Only because  _ you’ll  _ be hungover,” Ellen points out.

Dean snorts, despite himself.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

“So, morning or afternoon? Cas lives out of town, so it’ll take a while to get to him from here.”

“Twelve?” Dean suggests.

“Sure.”

“Thank you.”

“No worries,” Ellen smiles.

“Sorry—”

“No worries,” She repeats, voice more firm than it is gracious, now. Dean presses his lips together and fumbles for his keys, finding them and then turning to unlock his door. “One more thing, Dean?” Ellen seems ready to go, but her voice has taken on the tone of one who has something very important and vital to say.

“Yeah?”

She takes Dean’s hand and squeezes it, silent for a moment, before letting Dean’s fingers go and answering.

“If people waited until they were ready, they’d be waiting forever.”

Dean tilts his head to the side, hardly realising that he does this because he saw Cas today and was so reminded of his friend’s old, adorable habit, today.

“What?”

Ellen shakes her head, as though rephrasing what she has just said in her head.

“If  _ you  _ wait ‘til  _ you’re  _ ready,” She amends, “you’ll be waiting forever.”

Dean frowns.

Well, whatever the fuck  _ that  _ means.

“I’ll see you later, Ellen,” He nods, unlocking the door and letting himself in. He hears Ellen walking away, back down the many stairs.

Who does she think she is, some kind of mystic, talking all cryptically?

Dean sighs and doesn’t even get changed, just slumps, face down, on his couch, and falls asleep there.

  
  



	22. Wedding Rings

 

“So you’ve had a bad day, Dean?” Jimmy asks, passing him a bread roll. His dark eyebrows are pinched together into a frown. Dean looks down at his plate and shrugs. He had forgotten about feeling sad when he was with Castiel, moments ago, but now it is all coming flooding back to him. “I saw you sat on your front porch step,” Jimmy informs, voice gentle. He pours Dean a glass of water. “I’ve got three sons; I know what a sad little boy looks like.”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“I’m feeling happier now,” He informs Cas’s dad, who smiles warmly in return.

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” He replies. “I sent Cas out to check up on you. I think we’re both glad I did.”

Dean glances up at Castiel, who beams at him. Dean flushes and grins back.

“Me too.”

“Hey, what are you guys learning in school at the moment?” Jimmy asks, as Dean fills his roll with peanut butter, and Castiel his with honey.

“Nothing interesting,” Dean shakes his head, the conversation already putting himself on edge. “It’s all  _ boring.  _ Hate it.” He starts bouncing his knees up and down.

“Too much energy?” Jimmy asks knowingly, chuckling.

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “They’re  _ boring,  _ and they tell  _ me  _ off for it.”

Jimmy gives Dean a sympathetic look.

“Teachers can be like that. But some people just have more trouble concentrating, and that’s okay.”

Dean presses his lips together and smiles weakly. He is used to being told by people that he doesn’t pay enough attention, and everyone who works at his school seems to know, somehow, that Dean is a troublemaker and a daydreamer, and doesn’t like holding conversation with most grown ups, and is distracted by his pencils, and bounces up and down in his chair and looks out of his window and sometimes throws things across the room or shouts without thinking about it. And he doesn’t do any of this intentionally, he just can’t help it.

Jimmy presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder. Cas’s dad isn’t particularly tall and is a little skinny, but the hand still feels as big and warm as the sun.

“They can also be really unfair to kids who aren’t trying to be bad. Is that how you feel?”

Dean nods.

“Yeah,” Jimmy smiles gently. “I thought so. Is there anything you enjoy about it, though?” He asks, obviously concerned.

Dean shrugs.

“Music class,” He starts kicking his feet faster and faster. “When they play songs for us, I can see the colours. You know,” He explains, at Jimmy’s confused expression, “the colours of the song. Do you ever get that?”

“I can’t say I do,” Jimmy confesses, “though it’s very impressive that you do.”

Dean starts playing with some water that has spilt on the table.

“You’re  _ very  _ distractible today, Dean” Jimmy chuckles in way that makes Dean smile sheepishly but not feel guilty or naughty at all. “Did Cassie show you the story he wrote?”

“He did,” Dean looks up at Jimmy to beam, then smiles proudly at Castiel. “It’s so good!”

Castiel flushes.

“Daddy helped. A lot.” He looks down and smiles shyly at his plate, picking at his roll.

“But all the ideas were Castiel’s,” Jimmy replies, just as proud as ever. “He’s a  _ great  _ storyteller. Always tells me about your adventures, together.”

“We have a lot of adventures,” Dean grins. “Hey, Mr Novak, do you know what a salamander is? Because Cas found one! Can we go see it?”

“Maybe not now, Dean,” Jimmy chortles. “But some time soon, I’m sure.”

“How soon?” Dean asks around a mouthful of food.

“How about next weekend?” Jimmy asks. “I’ll talk to your mom.”

“Good,” Dean beams. He turns back to Cas. “Are salamanders magic?” He asks. Castiel bursts out into a fit of giggles.

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You’re only saying that to be nice,” Dean comments, though he smiles all through it, “but I don’t care. Hey, Mr Novak,” He turns to Jimmy again. “You know that story you read me and Cas last week?”

Jimmy scratches at his chin.

“Last week? That’s a long time ago—but I think I can remember it.”

“Well, I was gonna ask you, what’s a sweetheart?”

Mr Novak’s mouth splits open into a grin. 

“Ah, a sweetheart,” He smiles, putting on a wistful expression that makes Dean giggle, even though he doesn’t know what he is laughing at. “Well, I might call someone I love a lot a sweetheart, especially if I’m feeling happy with them at the time, or if I think they’re particularly—well,  _ sweet,”  _ His eyes spark. “Castiel’s mommy would call all three of our boys sweethearts, for example.”

“So Cas is a sweetheart?” Dean asks, glancing first at Cas, and then at Jimmy. Cas’s cheeks are tinged a little pink. ‘Sweetheart’ suits him perfectly, Dean thinks—Castiel really  _ does  _ look sweet, right now, with the early afternoon sun lighting up his features in the blanched white of the Novak’s kitchen, with Cas eating his lunch so neatly, only a few crumbs on his plate and around his cheeks, compared with the terrible mess  _ Dean  _ always makes, when eating.

Jimmy laughs warmly.

“I suppose that depends on who you asked,” He nudges at Castiel playfully, who smiles his shy little smile and looks down at his plate. “If you asked  _ me,  _ I’d say he was a sweetheart.”

“ _ I’d  _ say he was a sweetheart, too,” Dean chimes in, staring earnestly up at Jimmy before grinning over to Cas.

Jimmy laughs again.

“And what would make you say that?”

“You said people say someone is a sweetheart if they love them a lot,” Dean answers. Isn’t that kind of obvious? Castiel beams down at his plate, ears pink. “I love  _ Cas  _ a lot, Cas is my best friend.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jimmy’s smile looks just like Cas’s, only a lot more affectionate and filled with much less of the inexplicable joy and wonder that Castiel’s features have taken on.

“And I’m  _ always  _ happy with Cas,” Dean continues. “And he’s  _ very  _ sweet.”

He points over to Cas now, who is bright red, azure eyes shimmering and wide with disbelief, his mouth open, to prove this point.

Jimmy smiles warmly and places a hand on Cas’s shoulder.

“Well, that’s very nice of you,” He says, squeezing Cas’s arm.

“I think Dean is sweet, too,” Castiel says, looking up at his father instead of at Dean. Jimmy’s eyes soften. “What are the different ways people call each other sweetheart?”

Jimmy raises his eyebrows in confusion at his youngest son’s question.

“Would you call mommy a sweetheart?” Castiel clarifies.

“I would,” Jimmy nods. “So people who are  _ in  _ love might call each other sweetheart, as well.”

Dean wrinkles his nose.

“That kinda thing sounds yucky.”

Cas glances over to him with intense blue eyes, but then flits his gaze back over to his father’s.

“Married people call each other sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” Jimmy confirms, “and parents say it to their children, and so on. People who love each other.” 

“How do you know if you love someone?”

“And what is marriage for?”

Dean asks the second question. Jimmy begins to laugh again. Dean takes another, enormous mouthful of food, but doesn’t stop staring up at Jimmy Novak.

“Wow,  _ so  _ many questions!” He exclaims affectionately. “Okay, I’ll start with yours, Cassie, since you asked first, and then yours, Dean. You know you’re in love with someone, I suppose, if you care about them,  _ really  _ care about them, and whether they’re happy, healthy safe—and so on. That kind of caring isn’t selfish: you care that they’re happy even if it means that you’re not. 

“You know you love someone if being with them makes you happy—a lot of people say falling in love with someone is something big and dramatic, but I think it’s more like coming home. It’s peaceful, at least after a while. It isn’t possessive, love—no matter what people say. And if it’s true love, the person you’re in love with will want all those things that you want for them, for you:  _ your  _ health,  _ your  _ happiness,  _ your  _ safety. They’ll feel like you’re their home, and they’ll be yours.”

Oh, Dean frowns. That just sounds like  _ Cas. _

“It’s that simple?” He asks. Jimmy bursts into laughter.

“Most people, after what I just said, would say that was the most complicated thing in the  _ world.” _

“Well, that’s dumb,” Dean frowns. “It’s  _ easy.” _

But then, Dean’s mommy and daddy don’t seem to be finding it easy.  _ They  _ aren’t peaceful,  _ they  _ don’t seem to think of each other as home, and if they did, then why does Dean’s dad spend so much time away from it?

“Marriage—well, marriage is for just that, I suppose. Two people saying to each other,  _ you’re my person.” _

“Two people who love each other?”

“Yes,” Jimmy nods, “and two people  _ in  _ love.”

“What’s the difference?”

Jimmy chuckles.

“You don’t make answering questions easy, Dean. I guess you’ll know the difference when— _if,”_ He corrects himself, “you feel it. The person you want to marry—well, hopefully—the person you marry will be your friend. And so you’ll love them like you love your friends, but you’ll also love them a little bit differently to how you love their friends. People who are just friends don’t move halfway across the world just so they can be together. People who are _in_ love with each other—well, there’s a strong chance that they would. Does that help?”

Dean frowns.

He can’t imagine not living next to Cas, can’t imagine having to play on his own, having no one to cheer him up when he’s had a bad day and his parents are fighting. He’d move halfway across the world for  _ Cas.  _ Does that mean he should marry Cas?

“When you get married, it’s a promise,” Jimmy continues. “A promise to stick with the person you married, a promise to stand by them, to carry on loving them, even when it gets difficult. It’s a promise to be their friend, and very importantly, they promise all those things  _ back  _ to you. When it’s done well, marriage is one of the loveliest things in the world: two best friends promising to stay together through good and bad, to put the other first, to make a life, to build a home together.”

Dean looks at Cas. The other boy’s ears are a little pink.

“Are both of you finished?” Jimmy asks. Castiel nods, blue eyes turned up at his father. Dean carries on staring at Castiel as he answers Jimmy.

“Yeah,” He nods. “Thanks for the food, Mr Novak!”

Jimmy ruffles at his hair.

“It’s no problem, Dean. I hope that I managed to answer at least  _ some  _ of your questions.”

“Oh, you did,” Dean nods his head fervently, slipping off his chair and following Jimmy to the sink where he begins to wash their plates. Castiel follows after him.

“I did? That’s good,” Jimmy hums affectionately, glancing back at the pair as Dean slips his hand into Castiel’s.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. Cas’s big round eyes have turned to fall on Dean. He grins up at Jimmy. He holds Cas’s hand tightly. “When I’m older, I wanna marry  _ Cas.” _

Jimmy’s expression changes. Castiel goes a bright red, and his hand moves in such a way that Dean thinks maybe the other boy wants to pull it back, wants Dean to let go—but then Cas, still a bright pink, holds onto Dean’s hand even tighter, squeezing, and lets out a small, rare smile.

The light from the kitchen window pebbles across Mr Novak’s face.

“Marry Cassie?” He repeats. Dean nods vigorously. Jimmy chuckles. “Well, that’s very nice. I can’t think of a better couple.”

Dean grins.

“I think so too! Hey, do you need any help, Mr Novak?”

“No, thank you, Dean. You and Castiel should go play outside. Have some fun. You’ve had a long day.”

“Thanks, Mr Novak!”

Dean pulls at Castiel’s hand and leads him out of the house and into the garden. He sits down on the grass.

“Let’s live in this house, if we get married.”

Castiel tears distractedly at the grass.

“Yes…” He nods.

“That way your daddy can still make us lunch,” Dean explains. Cas begins to giggle.

“That sounds nice.”

“Because you’re my best friend, and your daddy said best friends get married.”

Castiel frowns softly.

“I don’t think he said best friends  _ always  _ get married…”

Dean gets up.

“Yeah, but we will.”

Castiel follows after him.

“How do you know?”

“Because I  _ want  _ to.”

“But we’re both  _ boys.” _

Oh—Dean hadn’t even  _ thought  _ of that.

He chews at his lip a moment, deep in thought.

“But your daddy didn’t say that was a problem. He said we’d be a  _ great  _ couple. And I don’t want to marry someone—anyone—else.  _ You’re  _ my best friend, Cas,” Dean explains, staring earnestly at his friend. Then he gets distracted. “Hey, look, a butterfly!” He points to a shimmering, metallic-blue butterfly on one of the big flowers in Jimmy’s garden.

Cas doesn’t seem to mind the distraction.

“Butterflies are pollinators, just like bees,” Castiel says, approaching it. Dean follows after him, so that he is crouching down right next to the other boy, their heads next to each other. Then Cas turns to Dean.  

“You’re my best friend too, you know, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So basically, kid Cas and Dean are my reasons for existing. I hope you found that half as cute as I did :)


	23. Locked Into Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update took a while! I've been travelling in New Zealand an my luggage limit was 1 item at 7kgs (literally nothing lol!) so I didn't bring a laptop to write on. I had the most awesome time, though!
> 
> The next chapter should be up very very soon, as should the next chapter of The Devil's Epitaph for those of you who read it - I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Thanks for reading - please please leave comments :)

“This was a shitty idea,” Dean stands outside Castiel’s front door, body suddenly locked into position, stomach churning. “A  _ shitty  _ idea. Let’s go. Fuck it, Ellen, this was stupid—let’s just go—”

“Not likely,” Ellen frowns, shaking her head. “You made a promise, Dean. You gonna bail on it or deliver?”

Bailing sounds pretty fucking appealing right now.

Ellen’s expression turns a little more severe as she once again manages to read Dean’s thoughts.

“Nope,” She shakes her head again. “You made a promise, kid. You’re not letting Cas down on this.”

And she pushes open the door.

“I’m not a kid,” Dean grumbles quietly, frowning at Ellen’s back, though shuffling a little sheepishly forward. “And shouldn’t you knock—”

“You don’t knock, Dean,” Ellen rolls her eyes.

“How do you know?”

“Rufus’s wife,” Ellen replies shortly.

“Oh.”

There are voices in the living room. Dean glances up and down the hall. A mirror, cracked in the corner from when Dean and Castiel were racing down the stairs and knocked it over, hangs to his left. The crack seems more like detailing than anything else, strangely beautiful in a clear, silver shape, a smooth line contrasting the faded gold of the mirrors frame. It rings with memories.

Opposite the mirror, on the wall the stairs climb up, is a copy of a painting by a Dutch artist Dean can’t remember the name of. Jimmy always loved him. V-something. What was his name?

Up the staircase are photographs, and Dean feels strangely guilty to think of how many of those frames contain pieces of himself, capturing Dean’s likeness forever in a house Castiel would rather not welcome him into.

What would happen do this house, now? Dean knows he has no right to feel as childishly defensive of the fate of this home as he does, but he can hardly help it. This house  _ formed  _ him, in a more real and intimate way than he would be able to, or rather ever feel comfortable with, articulating. If the Novak children choose to sell it, which of Dean’s memories will Dean be able to cling onto for comfort? So many of them are based around the pristine, painted walls of this home, complete with embarrassing photographs, sandalwood candles, chipped teacups, old books, wood ready for the fire, curtains decorated with little birds and flowers and bees—

“Dean,” Ellen’s hand is on Dean’s shoulder, Dean realises how strongly it is his eyes prickle with tears, and how obviously they must be forming. 

There is, he realises, an unspeakable violence in grief. 

“We  _ can  _ go, if it’s too much for you. I didn’t mean to push you too hard, I’m sorry—”

Dean is just in the process of shaking his head stubbornly in short, fast movements, when a shadow flickers in the light of the living room doorway.

And for the first time in nine years, Castiel Novak is the first person to greet Dean in the big white house.

“You came.”

The words, so simple each manage to leave a bullet-hole in Dean’s chest.

He almost takes a step back: stormy, perceptive eyes like sharp sapphires, the familiar doleful slant of those eyebrows, and the curious, bewildered tilt of his head. Why should Cas have such an effect on Dean, even after all these years?

But the most staggering thing about Castiel’s appearance, this time, is that he’s actually  _ smiling. _

Or is as close to it as Dean could possibly hope for.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, face hot enough for him to believe he’s a damn teenager again. “I promised.”

Castiel’s eyes soften, and while his facial expressions are so often near imperceptible,  _ this  _ change is drastic.

“Thank you.”

Dean could cry.

And then, he realises, he actually  _ does. _

“I got you—” He tries to speak over it, but it hardly works. Cas, to his credit, only peers patiently, curiously, at him all through it. Dean lifts up a brown paper bag. “I got you honey, on the way—from—they have beekeepers out near the lake—the one we used to fish in?”

Castiel nods.

“I remember,” He confirms, but then frowns. “That would have been very far out of your way. You said you live in town, now?”

Dean shrugs, looking down.

“Doesn’t matter,” He mumbles. “I wanted to get you something nice. They said this was lavender honey. I don’t know what that means.”

“It probably means the bees made their honey from the nectar of lavender,” Castiel laughs. Dean flushes, feeling suddenly stupid for wanting to—and attempting to—act so cool and off-the-cuff. “Thank you, though. Come in,” Cas gestures.

Dean almost  _ can’t,  _ but Ellen pushes him forward, and he just about manages.

The living room is set up in pretty much the same way it was the day of Jimmy’s funeral, except now there are fewer people. Ellen spots Anna and immediately sits down in front of her, squeezing Dean’s arm comfortingly before she does so by way of farewell, and, Dean guesses, encouragement. Dean smiles awkwardly at Castiel.

“I forgot how much Ellen loved my cousin.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, nervous despite Cas’s bemused expression. “Anna and Jo were… Good friends.” Castiel sits back down as Dean speaks. “Do you know if they still are?”

Cas shrugs.

“I haven’t really kept up with…  _ that  _ side of things, for a while, now.”

Dean squirms, almost too uncomfortable to sit opposite Cas. Where the blue eyed man says  _ that side of things,  _ what he means is  _ Dean’s  _ side of things. And it really fucking hurts, like a punch to the gut with an iron fist.

“Oh. Okay.”

Jo, by association to Dean, he guesses, is just as guilty as he is in everything going to shit.

“I’m glad you got home safe, last night.”

Dean glances self-consciously about the room.

“Yeah,” He nods vaguely. “Ellen drove me.”

Conversation is as stifled as it was the day of Jimmy’s funeral. Why can’t it be like last night, when Cas seemed happy to divulge huge parts of his mind to Dean? What has Dean done wrong since then?

Maybe being slightly drunk would make this whole ordeal a lot easier.

“Good,” Castiel replies, slowly. The unsteady crease inbetween his eyebrows indicates that he isn’t  _ too  _ fucking happy about this. “So you were… too drunk to drive?”

Dean shrugs, looking down.

Michael and Gabriel are talking quietly in the corner. Neither of them acknowledged Dean or Ellen as they entered the room—maybe the novelty of seeing faces from the past has worn off. Maybe they didn’t  _ notice  _ Dean or Ellen entering.

Their words are quiet enough, a bubbling murmur, that Dean has no idea what the content of their conversation could be; whether it is a discussion or a story, whether Michael is heaping advice upon Gabriel, welcome or not, or berating him for his actions. Both are equally likely.

“And how are you feeling this morning?” Cas asks, still peering steadily at Dean. He frowns as though he fully expects whatever Dean’s answer will be to be a lie.

“Uh,” Dean plays with his hands, wringing them together tight enough so that it hurts. “I don’t know,” He laughs honestly, a little self deprecating. “I guess I should be asking you that, huh?”

“I’m not the one hungover,” Cas answers shortly, and is that—is he  _ accusing  _ Dean, right now? Oh,  _ fuck no,  _ Dean doesn’t need this, especially not from Cas, especially not after everything he  _ did— _ keeps  _ on  _ doing, for him.

“I’m  _ not  _ hungover.”

Cas’s face ripples like he’s biting down on a smirk.

“If you say so.”

Dean shuts his mouth tightly.

Asshole.

He pointed out years ago that  _ Cas  _ and  _ ass  _ sound exactly the same, and he feels pretty damn tempted to point it out now, remind the other man of it and how it is that he lives up to that name, but Cas carries on speaking.

“So those songs you played last night were brilliant.”

Dean squirms, face hot.

“Oh,” He frowns. He hadn’t expected a compliment. The hell is he supposed to do with that? A compliment from  _ Cas?!  _ “Thanks… I—they’re kinda shitty, and works in progress, but—”

Cas snorts.

“Take my word for it, Dean, even if you feel as though they’re not finished. They’re amazing.”

“You’re just saying that,” Dean frowns at the floor. “You’re the real artist, anyway.”

Castiel sighs.

“I can tell we’re not going to agree on this.”

Dean nods grimly, lips pressed together.

“I guess not.”

“You always  _ were  _ far too self-deprecating.”

“And you were always—” Dean fumbles, trying to think of a retort, but he finds he can’t. He can’t find fault with Cas.  _ Perfect.  _ The other man raises his eyebrows at Dean in questioning patience. “A dork,” Dean decides, crossing his arms. Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Guilty.”

Dean stares at the person he once called his best friend. It was always nearly impossible to work out what Cas was thinking, what Cas was  _ actually  _ thinking, beyond confusion or dislike. But now, after not seeing him for nearly a decade, it’s more difficult than ever.

“Remember the treehouse we made?” He finds himself asking.

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards, he looks at the ground and somehow seems to be looking through it, expression wistful and distant.

“And how we planned it for  _ months.” _

“And how we used to camp out in it,” Dean smiles, meaning it for the first time in years. “And try and count the stars. And come up with our own names for the constellations.”

Castiel beams.

“And how your dad helped us with it.”

Dean’s memories turn sour.

“Yeah,” He swallows thickly. “John was… pretty good at that kind of thing, right?”

“Is it still there? The treehouse? Do you know?”

Dean looks away and shakes his head.

“I have no idea. Haven’t gone back there in years.” He glances back up at Cas, whose expression has saddened considerably. He no longer seems to be looking through things in wistful recollection, but stares right at Dean with a deflated mood of disappointment. “Sorry.”

“No, that makes sense, I suppose.”

Dean swallows around a sharp spike in his throat.

He wants to tell Castiel that he has thought of him every day. That he has loved him every moment of these nine years apart, with every fibre of his being. That the only reason for him not revisiting the old places they used to go, is because it hurts too much.

“Sorry—”

He’s sorry for everything they lost. The friendship, kinship, the hours, days, years spent together in blissful companionship. He’s sorry for Jimmy. He’s sorry for nine years of no contact. He’s sorry for screwing up. He’s sorry for everything.

Castiel looks irritated. Dean shrivels into his seat.

“No,” The blue eyed man shakes his head, “I haven’t visited it either.” He looks down, a muscle in his jaw working. He looks back up again, and it’s like being stabbed by ice. “It’s funny how we grow out of things, isn’t it?”

_ But I don’t  _ want _ to grow out of you,  _ Dean thinks,  _ I never wanted to grow out of you. _

“Yeah…” He mumbles, eyes prickling fiercely as he turns his gaze to the floor.

“Funny how we forget…”

_ I never wanted to forget. I never will. _

Dean can’t speak, can’t reply: throat too tight to make so much as a squeak, he sits and stares at Cas, desperately, wishing for the other man to know, finally, after all these years, how much Dean loves him.

If he could’ve predicted an ending to their story, this wouldn’t have been it. Or maybe it would have: Dean has always been doomed to be left unhappy, left behind, have his dreams and hopes dashed, needs left as though they don’t, have never mattered at all.

Dean just wants to break down. Wants to have Cas’s arms wrapped around him as he does; wants to be free to share his own brokenness with the man opposite him and in doing so mend it. But he can’t.

“Castiel,” The little girl—Mara—pulls at the lapels of Cas’s jacket, “mommy’s asking if you want any food. She says you haven’t eaten.”

Castiel draws a deep breath inwards and seems to rouse himself from wearying thoughts.

“Right—thank you, Mara—I’ll go speak to her.”

And he gets up without another word, exiting stiffly from the living room, expression so distant Dean is amazed Cas is even on the same planet as the rest of them.

Dean stares after him even after he disappears. Then he turns his head to his hands and takes a long, shuddering sigh.

“Are you okay?” Comes a quiet voice next to him. Dean looks up, trying not to jerk into life again too suddenly, to see Mara staring up at him with the same bewildered worry both Cas and Jimmy used to wear so often.

“I’m—” He stammers, “Thank you, Mara—I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

“You look sad,” The girl observes simply. Dean’s features are tugged down in sorrow.

“Yeah, probably,” He admits. “I  _ am  _ sad.”

“You knew Jimmy?”

“I loved Jimmy.”

“Me too.”

Dean smiles, but it is soured by melancholy.

“That’s nice,” He replies gently. “He was an easy guy to love, I think.”

“What was your name again?” Mara asks. “I’ve forgotten.”

Dean fiddles with the seam of his jeans, worrying at the material to soothe his own anxiety.

“Dean,” He answers. “Dean Winchester.”

“And you were friends with Castiel?”

“A long time ago,” Dean admits, “I was  _ best  _ friends with Castiel.”

Mara sits on the floor.

“What happened?” She asks, and stares up at him.

_ Life,  _ Dean thinks bitterly,  _ life happened, and fucked things up like it always does. _

Or maybe, instead of ‘life’ happening,  _ Dean  _ happened—Dean happened like he always does, and fucked things up. 

“Oh,” He slips off his chair and sits down on the floor opposite Mara, “when he moved to England for college—university—we just stopped speaking.” He swallows. “That kind of thing happens, and that’s okay.”

Mara seems unconvinced.

“Castiel tells the best stories,” She informs him.

“I know,” Dean replies, beginning to let a small, sincere smile slip onto his features. “He used to tell me his stories all the time. I grew up hearing them.”

“That’s lucky,” Mara comments.

“I was  _ very  _ lucky to grow up with Cas.”

“Why do you call him Cas?”

Dean falters, glances first at the innocent curiosity scribbled delicately across the little girl’s face, then at the door to the living room. Empty: Cas isn’t there, which means he isn’t  _ here  _ to hear what Dean has to say about him.

So, finally, Dean can be honest.

“I don’t really know,” He chuckles. “It’s a nickname: I’ve called him that as long as I can remember.  _ Castiel  _ was a little hard for me to get out when I first met him, so I just started calling him Cas. I guess it was a sign that we were already friends, too. And I hoped we were, you know? Straight away I wanted to be friends with him. But he’s never complained about the nickname—I mean, I  _ hope  _ he likes it—”

“What’s a nickname?” Mara asks.

“A name you give someone—” Dean starts, “—that you love, I guess. A friend. Usually it’ll mean something—describe something about them, or be a shorter version of their name.”

“Like Cas and Castiel.”

“Like Cas and Castiel,” Dean nods. 

The girl smiles.

“You’re quiet like Castiel,” She states.

“I don’t think he’d agree,” Dean lets out a reluctant laugh. “Normally, I was the loud, shouty one out of the two of us.”

“You aren’t any more?”

“Today I’m just a little sad,” Dean explains.

“Oh, Okay,” Mara nods, her expression softened by understanding, her voice made quieter by the simplicity of childish empathy. “Did Castiel have a nickname for you?”

Dean nearly cries alongside the short burst of nostalgic laughter that floods out of him suddenly at the girl’s question, sounding and feeling like a tap turned on, then off, by accident.

“Castiel’s nickname for me—he had a few,” Dean swallows, though it feels sharp as though he is swallowing down a blade that cuts at his insides, “he used to call me Lumberjack, when he was annoyed with me.”

Mara bursts into a bright giggle.

“Why’d he call you that?”

Dean is unexpectedly cheered by the sound of the little girl’s laughter, so light and sincere, and leans forward, forcing himself to forget the day’s—and month’s—sorrows, in favour of entertaining the little girl in front of him.

“I used to wear a  _ lot  _ of plaid,” He explains. “Still do, but don’t tell Cas.” Mara giggles again at this, and Dean begins to smile genuinely. Warmth that he feels whenever he talks to kids, makes them laugh, makes them smile, ekes from his chest and into his features. “He used to say I looked like a lumberjack—especially when I made fun of what  _ he  _ was wearing—and the nickname kind of stuck.”

“Did you mind it?”

“I loved it,” Dean chuckles, “but don’t tell him that, either. I thought it was hilarious—thought it was cute, I guess,” He flushes a little at this, “when he was angry at me. Can you imagine that kind of face when it’s angry?” He asks, gesturing to an imaginary Cas beside them. “It’s always either really scary, or really funny.”

Mara’s smile is so wide that her eyes are all creased up into little slivers of brown.

“Castiel has never been angry with me,” She states, and Dean chuckles.

“Really? That’s good. When I was your age,  _ everyone  _ was angry with me.”

“Were you very naughty?”

“I was the naughtiest,” Dean answers, very impressively, and Mara titters a little louder.

“What was the worst thing you did?”

“Ooh,” Dean winces. “I don’t know if I should tell you that. It might give you bad ideas.”

“Tell me!” She exclaims excitedly. “Tell me, tell me!”

Dean laughs and runs a hand through his messy hair.

“You really want to know?”

“I  _ really  _ want to know.”

“Well,” Dean hums a moment in thought, “one time I ruined our kitchen by painting on all the walls. I was four,” He adds quickly, “so it wasn’t my fault.”

Mara’s nose wrinkles up in her laughter.

“Another time, I wanted to run away, but I didn’t want to miss any of my favourite shows, so I tried taking the TV with me.”

“How old were you?”

“Oh, that was right after the kitchen fiasco. So four, again. Mom wasn’t happy with me. My dad thought it was kinda funny, though.”

“What else?”

“Uh—a lot of pranks in school—hey, you’re enjoying this too much, I’m worried I’m giving you too many ideas.”

“What else did Castiel call you?”

“Huh?”

“You said Castiel had lots of different nicknames for you.”

“Oh,” Dean falters, reminded of himself in the girl’s sudden change of subject, “well, he didn’t have  _ lots _ of nicknames for me. Only really two that he used regularly.”

“What’s regularly?”

“Like, a lot. A lot of the time.”

“What were the nicknames?”

“Lumberjack, like I said,” Dean looks down at his hands, thoughts stilling for a moment. His throat feels itchy. “And,” Why is it so difficult to get out? Why does it hurt so much? “When he was happy with me,” Dean explains, as if to excuse it, “Honeybee.”

“Honeybee?”

Dean flushes, despite the fact he’s talking to a six year old.

“That’s it,” He looks away, out the window.

“Why did he call you that?”

Dean shrugs uncomfortably.

“He liked bees…”

“Did you have any other nicknames for him?”

Dean’s cheeks are so hot they could melt plastic.

“Uh, yeah,” He admits. “I used to call him Sunshine…”

“Why?”

Dean’s eyes burn.

“I guess—because he made me happy…”

“Did you make him happy?”

Dean has to swallow his tears back.

“Um…” He hesitates. Maybe once, he did.  _ Definitely  _ once, Dean made Castiel Novak, the blue eyed boy across the street, happy. But now? Maybe not. “Maybe?”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I—” Dean falters. “What?”

“I have a little sister, Beth,” Mara declares, standing up. “I’ll go get her.”

“Okay—” Dean watches her go, but blanches when his gaze reaches the door. 

Oh, shit.

Castiel Novak, the blue eyed boy from across the street, is standing in the doorway, staring at Dean with an electric, watery gaze.  

And for the first time in nine years, Dean can’t look away.

 


	24. Simple Thing

 

It happens when Dean drags Castiel by the hand into his own kitchen to tell his mom and dad the news.

“When me and Cas grow up, we’re gonna get  _ married!” _

He grins broadly, but it’s as though Dean’s smile has set off a bomb, or brought in a thunderstorm. Several things happen all at once.

Dean’s mommy bursts into tears, after taking one look at her son holding hands with his best friend. Dean’s father goes a bright red kind of colour, and drops the plates he had been holding. Dean flinches at the loud crack and following smashing sounds they make as they tumble onto the floor.

He takes hold of Dean’s arm and tugs him out of Castiel’s grip.

“Dean, you’re going upstairs. Castiel,” He turns to the dark haired boy, “it’s time for you to go home.”

“But—”

“No buts, Dean,”

John’s voice is harder than Dean has ever heard it. Mary, face blotchy, has begun to clear up the plates her husband dropped. Everything is happening so surrealy and quickly, it seems almost to be happening to Dean in a dream, or in memory—and perhaps it is. Perhaps none of this is real. He certainly hopes so. This isn’t how he expected his parents to react to the news that Dean was getting  _ married. _

“But—”

“Castiel, Mary will take you home.”

And so Dean’s mom straightens up, leaving the remnants of the broken plates that she hasn’t yet swept up, and presses a soft hand to Castiel’s shoulder, walking him out the room. She casts a furtive glance back to John, communicating something Dean doesn’t quite understand, and thinks he doesn’t really want to, to her husband.

John pulls Dean out the room after the front door has slammed shut again.

“What did I do wrong?” Dean asks—but his dad doesn’t answer, only grips his arm a little tighter and leads him up the stairs. “Daddy!” He shouts, now, to get his father’s attention, and pulls back on John’s grip, attempting to wrestle free from it. “What did I do wrong? Why am I in trouble?”

John holds on tighter and carries on pulling Dean up to his room, not saying anything. The silence, Dean realises, makes it worse, and his heart begins to flutter worriedly, ripping at his chest. He wishes his daddy would talk to him, shout at him, anything other than keep his jaw clenched and the muscles in his face twitching.

“Daddy!” Dean shouts, as John spins on his heel just outside Dean’s bedroom door.

He kneels down in front of Dean and breathes in deep for several long moments, swallowing, Dean thinks, his anger down to his feet.

“Dean,” He says, voice shaking just a little, “what you said in the kitchen. What did you mean?”

Dean frowns, bewildered.

“What I said,” He answers. “That me and Cas are gonna get married, when we’re grown-ups.”

John’s gaze flickers, right arm twitching.

“And what do you think that means?”

“It means that we’re best friends,” Dean answers—isn’t this obvious? Isn’t John married? Shouldn’t he know? “And that I want to stay around Castiel forever, ‘cause he’s my best friend. Like, if he moved to Alaska, I’d want to move there with him. ‘Cause I’d be sad if he wasn’t around. I’d have no-one to play with.”

John seems to calm down considerably at this. He almost laughs. But the anger still grips the edges of his frame.

“Who told you that means you should get married?” He asks, sounding vaguely interested, but another quake at the corner of his voice fills Dean with unease.

“Nobody, exactly…” Dean starts. He looks down and paws at the ground with his right foot. “I asked Mr Novak what marriage was, and he told me that you marry the person you love best, the person you can’t imagine life without—”

John laughs.

“I can’t imagine life without your Uncle Bobby, does that mean I should marry him?”

The words are bitten out. Dean is taken aback. He blinks, nonplussed and a little frightened, up at his father.

“Obviously, Mr Novak left out a couple of important details when he told you about marriage. Marriage is for  _ romantic  _ love. You wouldn’t marry your own mom, just because you loved her. It’d be  _ wrong.” _

Dean nods in agreement, eyes still wide. That makes sense.

“Romantic love is different to other kinds of love. All different kinds of love are just that—different. People spoil them by trying to,” His expression sours, but Dean only just picks up on it, “trying to make love—and… and romantic attraction—into something it’s not. You love Sammy different to the way you love your mom, for example. You’re just  _ friends  _ with Castiel, okay? Nothing more. Do you understand? Say you understand.”

“I understand,” Dean says, voice strangely small.

“Marriage is for a man and a woman—a boy and a girl, Dean. Not two boys, not two girls. Can you imagine having two mothers? There’d be no balance, would there? You need one daddy, one mommy. They’re like pieces in a puzzle. They fit together. You only put the pieces that fit together, together. Right?”

“Right,” Dean nods slowly. That makes sense, too. So why do his insides feel so horrible? And why does he feel like crying?

“If men were supposed to marry other men, then what would be the point of women? Don’t you see? It’d be silly. Men and women were made to fall in love, and marry each other. Does that make sense?”

Dean frowns, swallows, then finds himself bursting into tears.

“I don’t understand,” He gasps out between tears, “I love  _ Cas.” _

John’s jaw clenches.

“Dean, I’m going to give you some time alone in your room to cool off. You  _ don’t  _ love Castiel. Not the way mommy and daddy love each other, not the way Castiel’s mommy and daddy loved each other. You  _ like  _ Castiel, because he’s your friend. It’s as simple as that—and maybe people are gonna tell you that it’s not, that’s it’s not  _ just  _ that, but they’re wrong, and what they’re trying to tell you is wrong. Men marrying men doesn’t make any sense. That’s wrong. Men marrying women—that makes sense. That’s right. That’s the right thing to do, the right way to do things. Do you understand, now?”

Dean sniffles. He feels angry and bad and ill. But he looks down and nods.

“Good. This whole thing has just been a silly misunderstanding, Dean. You hear? Everyone got a little confused, that’s all. Everyone was just being a bit silly.  _ You  _ were being a bit silly. I’m going downstairs now. You’re gonna stay in your room to cool off,” John stands up and opens Dean’s bedroom door, pressing Dean inside. “I’ll come up and get you when I think you’ve had enough time on your own. After that, we can play some football, or baseball, if you’d like. How does that sound?”

“Can Cas play, too?” 

“You’ve had enough time playing with Castiel today,” Dean’s dad answers. And he closes the bedroom door. Dean hears him walking down the stairs heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sad chapter! The next one ought to be up very very soon - and the story will get happier soon, I promise!


	25. I'm Tired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple of chapters should come around daily, least another two chapters will be posted before Thursday!
> 
> My reading list is the most horribly immense thing on the planet, and I flew from Sydney to London (home) in the time between the last update and this one, so sorry for inactivity!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, as always. Please leave comments!

 

Dean’s throat is dry, so dry that it feels almost sharp and jagged along its insides. He stares at Castiel, who stares back at him.

It is Cas who speaks first, of course.

“I didn’t know you remembered our nicknames...”

Dean swallows. It’s like pouring sand down his throat. He winces.

“I—of course I do, Cas,” He tries. 

Is this it? 

Is this the time he hints to Cas how much the dark-haired man has always meant to him?

Of course not.

“Here’s my little sister!”

Mara troops back over, carrying, rather clumsily, an infant of little under a year in her arms.

“Oh,” Dean tries, voice faltering, just as Mara plomps the baby into Dean’s arms.  _ “Oh—” _

Castiel sighs sharply from above him.

“You don’t have to hold her—”

The child, obviously sensing Dean’s clear discomfort, has begun to cry.

Baby's tears have always made a pulsing heat come on at Dean’s temples, made him redden, made him panic, however good he may be with kids when they’re  _ happy. _

It seems as though all the eyes in the room have flashed pointedly over to him, sullen at Dean for disrupting the quiet of the room. His face flushes, and, of all thoughts to whistle through his head, the one that causes Dean the most distress is the thought that Castiel will look at Dean, now, and think that this means Dean must be shitty with kids. Which is totally unfair, actually—kids are just about the only things or people in the world Dean  _ gets. _

He also really fucking hates himself for thinking like this.

But he laughs nervously and shifts the baby in his arms and holds her so that she is standing on his lap, and pulls a face at her. He bounces her gently.

“Hey, buddy,” He says, and the baby’s tears falter momentarily. “Hey,” He coos, gentler this time. He pulls another face. The baby doesn’t laugh, or even smile at it, but she  _ does  _ stop crying. And on the bright side, Mara  _ does  _ laugh at the the expression. Dean flashes a grin over at her. “Her name’s Beth?” He asks, moving the baby so that she lies on his lap, kicking occasionally, and reaching up to grab at Dean’s fingers. He trails them over her cheeks and the infant’s eyes droop minutely at the touch, caught between interest in the stranger holding her, and sleepiness at the pads of Dean’s fingers tracing gentle paths over her tiny, chubby face.

And as usual when holding or interacting with little kids, a thrill unparalleled rushes through Dean, and not for the first time, he wishes that in some way, shape or form, children this young and this innocent and this unblemished by the world could be a part of his life.

“Yep,” Mara nods in confirmation. She sits down beside Dean. “She’s my sister.”

Dean chuckles.

“You’ve said.”

“She likes you,” Mara says, beaming down at the infant on Dean’s lap, whose enormous eyes are fixed on Dean, fascinated.

“You think so?” Dean asks, with a smile in Mara’s direction. She nods emphatically.

“Yeah. Normally she cries  _ forever  _ when new people hold her. But she stopped, like, right away for you.”

“Right,” Dean chuckles. “Well, thanks for dropping me in it, I guess. Was it meant to be a prank?”

“Kinda…” Mara answers with a shrug. Dean grins and shakes his head.

“Sorry I ruined it.”

Mara giggles.

“That’s okay.”

Dean swallows and looks down at the baby. He can’t see Cas, and wonders if the man has moved away, if he is still watching Dean interact with his family, if he even  _ cares  _ that Dean really, really, loves kids. If anything like that would ever make Cas think the words  _ boyfriend material. _

“She’s a real cutie,” He comments, brushing at the many thin, silky hairs on top of Beth’s head.

“Daddy says she’s gonna have hair just like Castiel,” Mara answers, looking up to the doorway, where, perhaps, Castiel stands.

Dean nearly chokes when the man in question comes and sits down in front of them.

“I think my hair was a little thicker than Beth’s, even at that age.”

“Did you ever see Castiel when he was a baby?” Mara asks Dean.

Dean flushes, then blushes even darker at the look Cas is giving him, with the baby in his arms.

“Uh—I only ever saw pictures of him as a baby. We met when we were four—Cas was very nearly five.”

Dean can remember the day, the month, the hour, exactly.

“Was Castiel a cute baby?”

Dean nearly chokes again.

“Oh, well, I’m probably a little biased,” He stammers, “but—the photos I’ve seen—he’s very sweet—”

Honest to god, you could probably fry meat on Dean’s face, it’s so hot right now.

“Not as cute as Beth, though,” Mara says, matter-of-factly. “She’s the cutest.”

“I’m sure she is,” Dean nods, avoiding Castiel’s gaze. His heart is trembling.

“I’m gonna go find Anna. Do you know Anna?”

“I’ve known Anna since she was just about as old as Beth,” Dean chuckles, gesturing down at the baby in his arms.

“She’s the best ever,” Mara says candidly. “She’s so funny and pretty.”

Dean’s lips twitch upward, and he watches Mara get up and leave, before realising— _ shit.  _ He’s been left alone with Castiel again.

He looks up from the baby to his ex-best friend. Castiel watches him with wary eyes. He seems almost  _ confused. _

“Thank you for the honey,” He says, finally. His eyes are as far removed by the distance of Scotland to Kansas as they are by the nine years that have separated the pair, so alien and foreign they seem, now. But they shimmer with the same familiar intensity, a light shining between two oceans. “That was very kind of you.”

Dean’s throat contracts.

“It really wasn’t,” he shakes his head, “I just—”

He can’t finish his sentence.

“Just what?” Castiel asks with a frown. His head, like it always used to, inclines minutely to the side as he speaks. Dean wants to kiss him, wants to hug him, embrace him, cry, cry, cry on Castiel’s shoulder—but he doesn’t: he can’t.

His answer grates against his throat.

“Just wanted to be a good friend to you.”

Whatever Dean could have said, it seems as though this was the wrong thing.

Cas’s eyes narrow, he, visibly, withdraws himself and rebuilds hundreds of interior walls in a matter of seconds—walls that have taken this long just to begin to break down. Dean’s heart all but fractures in an instant.

“A friend?” He repeats. Dean shrinks away.

“I mean—”

“We haven’t spoken in what, nine  _ years?  _ You keep on saying things—things that mess with my head, Dean, things that make me think I  _ never  _ understood you—what’re you doing here? Why did you come here, today? Is this your way of making yourself feel better? Because in case you hadn’t realised, Dean, it’s not  _ you  _ you need to patch things over with. What’s wrong with you? How can you be so self-absorbed?”

Dean flushes, deep and fierce, then glowers at Castiel.

No.  _ Fuck  _ no. He’s had enough. And he’s not gonna be blamed for  _ this,  _ of all things.

“Stop assuming you know shit, Cas. You  _ don’t.  _ You’re an  _ ass.  _ I’m—” He gestures vaguely, and for a moment his throat closes up completely and he fails to get any sound out of it, but then it comes out again, louder, perhaps, than it would be wise to be. “I’m trying so hard—I’m hurting so much— _ so much,  _ Cas—and every time I walk into a room, you look at me like I’ve taken a shit on your grave,” A weird fucking way of putting it, Dean realises, but it’ll have to do,  _ Cas  _ is the writer after all, “and then, other times, you look at me like—like no time has passed, and we’re friends, again. What am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to  _ do?  _ I’m—I’m—”

But he really can’t finish the sentence this time. So he just stops, and hands the baby in his lap over to Cas, where she immediately begins crying, again, and Dean—not ridden at least with guilt about  _ this— _ stalks out the house. He could just head across the street, and find his mom in the green house opposite this one, but of course he doesn’t do that. That house isn’t his home, any more—nowhere is—and it would kill him to confide in his mother, after everything, after everything  _ she  _ did to Dean that hurt him, broke him, just like everything else in this life.

So he goes and slumps down beside Ellen’s car, until, whether an minute or an hour later, Ellen comes and sits softly down, next to him.


	26. Tire Swing

 

“Don’t be dumb,” Dean rolls his eyes, holding an old paint can in one hand as he climbs the ladder to his and Cas’s treehouse.

“I’m not being dumb,” Sammy protests, following up after him as Dean hands the can to Cas through the trapdoor and clambers in. “I’m just saying that if this was a  _ real  _ pirate ship—”

“Sammy, you’re so boring—”

“Mom said to be  _ nice  _ to me!—”

“Why’re you such a baby?”

Not for the first time, it’s Cas who breaks up the brothers’ fighting.

“Hey, I think it was a good idea, Sam.”

“Yeah? Well I don’t,” Dean grumbles, slumping down onto the floor of the treehouse and pressing his back against the wooden boards. “Why’ve you gotta take  _ his  _ side, anyway? You’re  _ my  _ friend.”

“I’m not taking sides,” Castiel replies longsufferingly, not looking at Dean. He’s putting on his grownup voice, the voice Dean  _ hates,  _ and he’s probably doing it deliberately, as well. “And I’m  _ both  _ of your friends, remember?”

Dean makes a growling sound at the back of his throat and plays with the frayed toe of his right sneaker.

“You jealous, Dean?” Sam smirks from where he has sat, cross-legged on the floor of the treehouse, and Dean makes a move to punch him, but Cas gets in his way.

“Stop it!”

“I wasn’t gonna do anything,” Dean mumbles grudgingly, and shoots daggers at Sam when Castiel looks away.

“Mom  _ said  _ you had to be nice—”

“Yeah, and I said shut up,” Dean retorts. “This is me and  _ Cas’s  _ treehouse, not yours. You should be thankful we’re letting you up here.”

“Hey!” Sammy exclaims. “Dad  _ said  _ I could come up here, and that you had to share—”

“I’m sharing, I’m sharing! What does this look like to you?!”

“Stop talking to me like that, I’m six and a  _ half—” _

“Oh, my God,” Dean groans, looking up at the ceiling and the branches that weave through it. Sam gasps.

“That’s rude!”

“Says who?” Dean looks back down at Sam.

“Says everyone at  _ church.” _

“I hate church,” Dean grumbles, and kicks at the wooden floor. Cas, sensing Dean’s discomfort, changes the subject.

“So how about adding a tire swing to the treehouse, like you said?”

Dean shrugs.

“We’d probably need dad’s help…”

“Why’s that a problem?” Sam asks. Dean glowers at him.

“Maybe we wouldn’t,” Castiel muses. “We could do it ourselves, I bet. Especially if there were three of us.”

“Sammy couldn’t do it,” Dean shakes his head quickly.

“Dean!”

“What? You’re too young!  _ I’d  _ be the one in trouble if you hurt yourself!”

Castiel sighs, exasperated, and sits down, too.

“You guys are impossible,” He grumbles, glaring at the two brothers.

Gabriel’s head popping through the trapdoor is enough to make all three of them jump and let out cries of surprise.

Immediately, Cas’s older brother begins to laugh, and between his laughter, says,

“Knock knock. Didn’t frighten any of you babies, did I?”

“What’re you doing back from college?” Castiel asks with a frown, and Sammy, at the same time, says,

“I’m not a baby, I’m six and a  _ half.” _

Gabriel smirks first at Sam, raising his hands in surrender, then turns to Castiel, arms propped up on the floor of the treehouse, only the top half of his body inside, the rest still perched on the ladder below.

“Thought I’d come and visit,” He shrugs. “Only when I got home, dad said you’d all gone here to play, like,  _ minutes  _ before I arrived. So I took my bags upstairs and ran to catch you up, and say hello to my  _ adorable  _ little brother and his friends.”

To emphasise this point, Gabriel takes a hold of Cas’s cheek and squeezes it playfully between thumb and forefinger. Castiel scowls but doesn’t make too much of a fuss, only swats his older brother off.

“That’s cool,” Dean says with a smile, “but do you know the password? ‘Cause you can only come in if you—”

“Aw, but I’m Cassie’s plus one!” Gabriel exclaims, and hoists himself up from the ladder and into the treehouse in one smooth movement. “You  _ have  _ to let me in!”

Dean turns to Cas and pulls a face to ask whether Cas can confirm this. The dark haired boy groans and shrugs.

“If he’s home for the weekend, it’d be better if we just let him come in,” He sighs. “Otherwise he’ll annoy me  _ all the time  _ back home.  _ And  _ steal my food at dinner.”

Gabriel grins and barks out a single-syllable laugh.

“Well there we go,” His tone is triumphant. “The man knows me. Thanks, little brother. I  _ knew  _ being your relative would get me places.”

Castiel rolls his eyes longsufferingly. Gabriel, however, doesn’t notice and crosses his legs underneath him, looking more like an imp than anyone Dean has ever seen. His copper hair is all ruffled up, amber eyes sparking with thoughts of how best to cause excitement and mayhem. Sometimes this is fun, and Dean enjoys it—he’s a lot more loud and boisterous than Castiel, he’s realised—but sometimes, even Gabriel gets too much for  _ Dean. _

“So, you guys,” Gabriel rubs his hands together, leaning forward and putting on a silly voice, “how’ve you been?”

“Dean says I can’t help him build a tire swing because I’m too small,” Sam pipes up.

Gabriel mocks a dramatic gasp and turns to Dean indignantly.

“Is that true?” He asks, voice breathy with faked exasperation.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“I only don’t wait him to get hurt. That’s all.”

Gabriel nods solemnly.

“I thought as much. How about I help?”

“What would you do?” Dean asks.

“Well, if I help, then you aren’t responsible, any more,” Gabriel reasons. “I’m the oldest person in the equation, see?”

“What’s an equation?” Sam asks, but Dean talks over him.

“Okay, it’s a deal.”

“Cool,” Gabriel grins. “I needed a way to avoid doing any actual studying, and this seems kinda perfect.”

Of course, with Gabriel to help, they make short work of climbing one of the longest, thickest branches of the tree, and looping two lines of rope over it—Cas insisted on two, for safety’s sake, and Sammy agreed. Gabriel even managed to get an old tire for them—Dean doesn’t think he wants to know how or why—so the day isn’t even over by the time they’ve finished.

Gabriel walks home with Sammy—but Dean and Cas have brought their dinner, here, to enjoy in the treehouse together, and so sit on its floor, talking—Dean with his mouth full, most of the time—of just about everything.

And when the evening draws near, they climb back down the ladder and take turns on the new addition to their fort: the tire swing. Sometimes taking turns, sometimes swinging together and bumping heads and giggling, Dean tells Cas the cruddy jokes he’s memorised that day while the dark haired boy tips his head back and laughs, hair whipping in the wind as the swing takes them back and forth, a pendulum against an orange sky.

“Is Gabriel having fun at college?” Dean asks, holding onto the rope as Cas pushes him. The blue eyed boy shrugs and looks away thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” He confesses, honestly. “I think he enjoyed school more—or, at least, he’d just got  _ used  _ to school here. And then he had to leave, again. Which was maybe quite difficult. But he’s been there a couple of years, now. Maybe he’s getting used to it, all over again.”

Dean hums in agreement and looks about him at the outlined, dark trees of the forest which surrounds them. If he strains his ears, he can hear the stream he and Cas always explore, looking for fish and frogs and other tiny, exciting creatures. He points this out to Castiel.

Then, he says,

“I hope I go to college with you. I’d hate to have to make a bunch of new friends, and not have anyone to rely on.”

Castiel laughs gently, but it’s short and wistful.

“Hm, maybe,” He hums. “But you make friends very easily, Dean. And anyway, college is a long way off, yet. I’m just glad we’re gonna be going to the same  _ middle  _ school.”

“Hey, me too. D’you think our teachers are gonna be nice?”

Castiel shrugs.

“How would I know? Some of them might be  _ awful.  _ Michael says that when he got older, his teachers were nicer and more laid back with him. And when he got to college, he says they were all  _ super  _ friendly. But Gabriel said his teachers were never nice to  _ him.  _ Dad said that was because he was too loud, and made bad jokes, and Gabriel said that  _ they  _ made bad jokes, and then dad started laughing, and I didn’t really know why.” Castiel stops speaking and looks up at Dean, still on the swing. The blue eyed boy wrinkles his nose in confusion, and a clear line appears between his brows, nearly weaving them together. “Why’re  _ you  _ laughing?” He asks.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs, beaming. “I just—I’m glad you’re my friend.”

“Well, you’ve never really known anything else,” Castiel points out, and Dean barks out a laugh again.

“Maybe not,” He concedes, “although I remember a fair bit of life from before you arrived,” He says, impressively.

“I guess you like to look back on it and wonder where it all went wrong?”

“Oh, you  _ know  _ I do,” Dean grins. “And  _ I _ know where it all went wrong, too. It started out, my mom coming into my room, when I was playing with my cars—”

“ _ Toy  _ cars, Dean,” Castiel corrects, still pushing Dean on the swing.

“Okay, toy cars,” Dean concedes, “but don’t interrupt. Anyway, I was playing with them, age four, and mom came in, and said something like,  _ hey Dean, there’s this dumb family that’s moved in across the street, they have some loser kid about your age and he looks like he needs a friend—” _

Castiel snorts loudly and pushes Dean especially hard, so that the swing ricochets and pirouettes in the air. Dean’s brain rattles against his skull.

“Hey!” he exclaims, but laughs all the while.

“You deserved that,” Castiel replies, somehow both indifferently and amusedly. Dean grins in retaliation and the swing’s spinning and swinging begins to slow.

“Yeah, maybe,” He admits. “Hey, your turn,” He hops off while the tire swing is still moving, only  _ partly  _ to impress Castiel, and pulls it over to him. “On you get.”

“I don’t know if I trust you,” Cas narrows his eyes. “You probably want to exact revenge, for me pushing you so hard, just then.”

Dean gasps theatrically.

“I want to do nothing of the sort,” He protests. “I  _ only  _ wanted to give my  _ friend  _ a go on the swing that we made together. But, I guess if he doesn’t trust me—”

Cas rolls his eyes and gets on. Dean begins to push him.

“This was a good idea,” The dark haired boy smiles. Dean grins in return, expression widened by the black hair he sees driven this way and that by the force of the swing.

“Glad you think so,” Dean nods triumphantly. “I reckon it’s gonna be  _ awesome.” _

“What should we add to the tree house, next?”

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs. “Maybe a pulley system? Like, a way of pulling stuff up to the top, without having to climb up by the ladder and bring it that way?”

“That’s a great idea!”

Dean beams at the praise, and attempts a modest face.

“I’m sure you’d already thought of it.”

“No, that was all you. That’d be so useful, though, I really like it. How would we do it?”

“Rope—a lot of it, and a basket, and something for the rope to hinge on—”

“You’re so good at this, Dean,” Cas beams. Dean flushes in the darkness and grins at his friend’s affirmation.

“You’re just buttering me up. I know when it is you want something. Alright, Cas, what do you want?”

Cas’s smile is nearly splitting his face in two, yet his eyes are so sincere that the effect isn’t comical, it’s beautiful. His eyes flash, bright blue, like a cat’s eyes would, in the growing darkness.

“To stay your friend forever,” Cas decides. “That’s what I want. Can you promise that?”

Dean nods, chest tight with happiness.

“I can,” He confirms. “I promise.”

“Best friends?”

“Best friends.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”


	27. It's Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like, a super short chapter here, but I thought I'd give it to you anyway. The next couple get HEAVY. Hope you enjoy!

 

“So,” Ellen starts. “What went well: you got up the guts to go inside, you managed to have  _ one  _ friendly conversation with Castiel.”

“What could’ve gone better: the fight in which I basically shouted at Cas, at what’s pretty much his dad’s funeral.”

Ellen breathes out slowly.

“Yeah, maybe that wasn’t so good.”

Dean laughs bitterly.

They still sit on the curb outside Cas’s house.

“Maybe,” He admits. “Maybe we just…. Maybe things are just a little too broken for us to mend them. Ever.”

_ “Yet,”  _ Ellen corrects. “Mend them  _ yet.”  _ Dean sighs at her attempt at consolation. “What happened, anyway?”

“Now, I know you’re not stupid enough to ask me what happened nine years ago,  _ again, _ ” Dean draws a deep inward breath, “and I know you already know that me and Cas got in a fight, just now. So what are you talking about?”

Ellen sighs exasperatedly.

“Don’t worry, Dean. I’m a little tired.” She gets up and opens the driver’s door of her car. “I’ll assume that if you’re ever ready to talk about it—or  _ anything,  _ for that matter—you’ll just call me. Right?”

Dean gets up, swallowing thickly.

“Right,” He mumbles, even less convinced by his answer than Ellen is. He gets into the car after her.

 

…

 

He gets the text that night, lying awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It seems that this is exactly what Cas is doing, too, judging by the sender.

_ I’m sorry about today. I think I must’ve just lost my cool, which wasn’t right of me. I really appreciated you coming this afternoon, and everything you’ve done over the past week - baking, the honey, etc. What I said earlier did a great job of erasing all of that, which was shitty of me. I’m sorry. I got your number from Anna, who got it from Jo, if you were wondering. I hope that’s okay. This is Cas, by the way. _

Dean stares at his phone and wonders if he’s dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time. He swallows around the lump in his throat and spends what he thinks must be about half a fucking hour trying to think out the first  _ word  _ of his reply. What are his options? What should he say? “It’s cool, I only said what I said because I love you and I’m still hurting”, “When I said that you didn’t know anything, what I meant was that I never told you how I felt about you—how I STILL feel about you”, “You know those songs you heard me play? I wrote them about you. How could you not know that?”, and one, one that keeps buzzing through his head like an angry phone call: “Do you still love me? Can you forgive me?”

In the end, he settles for a whole lot of not-so-sweet-nothing.

His fingers rattle against his phone screen as he types out his answer in the dark, face illuminated by the stinging bright blueish light of the screen. 

_ No, I’M sorry. Maybe I’ve been a little too intense over the past couple of days, I guess I didn’t realise that you might not want to see me at all. I get it if you want/wanted space. I wanted to be a better friend to you than the one I’ve been for the past decade. I wasn’t myself today and I said some stuff I regret. Can we pretend like it didn’t happen? Sorry if this reply doesn’t make much sense. I’m half asleep. _

It takes a while, but Cas replies.

_ OK. _

Well, what the fuck? Why is the guy so damn contrary? Doesn’t he give a shit?  _ He’s  _ the one that messaged Dean in the first place, didn’t he want to talk? What did Dean do wrong?

Then, his phone buzzes again.

_ Are you free at all tomorrow? It’s the last day of shiva and I don’t want to spend all of it with Gabe/Mike etc. Would be nice to see you. I promise I won’t pick any more fights. _

Well, fuck, if Cas doesn’t know how to get Dean pulling out a trampoline every time the dark haired man says  _ jump.  _

His phone buzzes again. This message from Castiel rings with nervousness.

_ I get it if you’re too busy with work and stuff. Your schedule seems very full. Maybe it was rude of me to ask. No pressure either way. _

Dean nearly snorts.

Does Cas actually  _ want  _ to see him? He can’t help but entertain this idea, his heart fluttering nervously. If this is the case, then could it mean that Cas still cares for him? Wants to rebuild a friendship? Wants, possibly, to build something more?

Near immediately, Dean hates himself for letting his thoughts tread down this line, feels as though he is perhaps one of the most egotistical, self-obsessed humans that ever lived. Which, unfortunately, doesn’t stop him  _ hoping. _

_ I’ll be there. I can only make it in the afternoon for a little while, either that or the evening, after work at Ellen’s. Which would be better for you? _

Cas’s reply comes quickly.

_ If you come after work you’ll be exhausted. _

Okay, it  _ definitely  _ sounds like Cas cares about Dean, there. Is it possible? Maybe he’s just being delusional. Cas has always been practical, forward-thinking. He doesn’t care, of course not.

_ That doesn’t matter. We’ll get to talk more if I come after work. Is it company you want or what? _

_ Not sure. Sanity, maybe? _

_ Dunno if I’d be any good at providing that, but I’ll do my best. Be round at 10? Is that okay? _

_ That’s great, Dean. Thank you. _


	28. When We Laugh

 

 

“This is the coolest ever,” Dean beams up at a canopy of trees over their heads, leaves nothing but black silhouettes in the darknesses that has grown around them.

“Mmh,” Castiel hums in agreement. They have carelessly whittled away hours and hours chattering happily as the twilight has waned and turned from evening into night, dusk into dark.

“We should do this  _ loads,”  _ Dean beams. “Any holiday. Every holiday.”

Castiel smiles, a little sleepily, at the branches entangled above them.

“Yes,” He agrees again, “I’d like that.”

They’re lying on the wooden floor of the treehouse and the stars overhead peep out between the weaving skeletons of the trees around them. The moon is a sliver in the sky to their left, a fingernail against the velvet of dark.

“And maybe we could camp even  _ further  _ away from home. Like, we could go on a hiking trip, be proper explorers—”

Castiel beams.

“And what if we got lost?” He asks.

Dean shrugs carelessly, hardly taking the point into account.

“It’d be so much fun,” He continues, before registering Castiel’s question. “Getting lost?” He repeats. “That’d—we’d bring loads of food. And our walkie-talkies. And maybe a phone? I don’t know. Does it really matter?”

“Getting lost?” Castiel says again. “I think it’d matter a little—”

“Nah,” Dean shakes his head. “We’d be together, as long as we didn’t get separated, I wouldn’t mind. Remember when we were kids, and we always talked about being adventurers and explorers? It’d be just like that. We’d be fine.”

“We still  _ are  _ kids, Dean,” Castiel points out.

“I’m  _ eleven,  _ Cas, and so are you,” Dean counters. “We’re nearly old enough to  _ vote—” _

“Seven years away,” Castiel frowns. “That’s not ‘nearly’, not in my book.”

“Screw your book,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I know  _ I’m  _ mature. I’m playing football: by High School, I’m gonna be captain—you’ll see—”

“I never said you wouldn’t,” The dark haired boy reminds, but Dean is too distracted to pay attention.

“We’re out here, camping on our own—I know  _ I’m  _ mature—I’m the fastest kid in our grade, I’m the best drummer, even though I’ve only been playing for a year, and there are kids who’ve been learning since they were  _ five;  _ I’m better at math than anybody when I try, it’s just that I don’t bother trying, ‘cause it’s boring and our teacher is cruddy—”

“But what does that have to do with your maturity?” Castiel asks with a frown. Dean hesitates, his stupor interrupted, and his gaze flickers from the sky, to his hands, to Castiel.

“Uh—” He frowns. “I can’t—what were we talking about?”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards, heart blossoming with affection and exasperated sentimentality.

“Have you taken your meds today, Dean?” He asks. Dean closes his mouth, which turns downward with guilt and resentment.

“No,” He admits, “but I don’t  _ like  _ to. And it’s not a school day. So what’s the problem?”

Castiel shrugs.

“I’m not an expert, but—”

“And why do they give them to me, anyway? Why should I be more like other kids? Other kids are  _ boring _ —except you. Of course. Except you. But I don’t want to be like the rest of them. Why should I?”

“To help you focus?” Castiel suggests.

“Boring,” Dean repeats. “I know you don’t agree, and we’ll probably fight about this, but the way I see it, I’m just  _ different.  _ Why do they have to work so hard to try and make me like everyone else?”

“Charlie takes  _ her  _ meds—”

“Yeah, okay, and Charlie’s pretty cool—”

“She’s one of your best friends,” Castiel points out.

“True—hey, do you think  _ she’d  _ want to go camping with us?” Dean asks, suddenly distracted and excited by this idea. “We could get a whole gang to go, it’d be so fun—”

Castiel smiles affectionately.

Dean is particularly distractible today, flitting from subject to subject like an insect from flower to flower, never lingering, never dwelling, ever changing and turning through the air.

“That  _ does _ sound fun,” He admits. “Who else would go?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs. “Do you remember when you first met Charlie? You were  _ so  _ scared of her!”

“I wasn’t  _ scared  _ of her,” Castiel protests with a frown. “And you didn’t help it by saying she was probably in love with me—”

“Only a total moron would’ve actually  _ believed  _ me.”

“You think I’d have to be a moron to believe someone could have a crush on me?”

“No, not like that—I mean—Charlie’s  _ Charlie.  _ She wouldn’t have crushes on a boy. She’s too cool for that. That’s all I mean. Obviously—well,  _ loads  _ of people would have crushes on you—I’m sure loads of people  _ do—” _

Dean’s cheeks have darkened in the lambent moonlight.

“Who?” Castiel asks.

Dean glowers.

“Heck, do  _ I  _ know? I’m not keeping a record, Cas, I’m just saying I’m sure lots of people— _ some  _ people— _ do. _ Do, y’know, have crushes on you. Or whatever, _ ”  _ Dean finishes, exasperated.

“Okay, alright, I get it,” Castiel allays. “Well, I’m sure lots of people have crushes on you, too,” He returns the compliment that was so grudgingly and clumsily given to him. Dean’s scowl grows a little more across his features.

“Yeah, right,” He rolls his eyes. “Who?”

“Like  _ I’m  _ keeping track?!” Castiel sighs, frustrated.

“Right, right, sorry,” Dean swallows, and his expression shifts seamlessly from a scowl into one of guilt.

“That’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry for being annoying,” Dean looks down, expression still guilt-ridden. “I’m being stupid—”

Castiel slips his hand into Dean’s. He rarely does this, anymore—not unless the two of them are alone, he’s learnt that Dean can get a little embarrassed by it, despite how much the contact seems to comfort him—though when they were children, they did it all the time.

“Is something wrong?” Castiel asks.

“What do you mean?”

“You seem like you want to be distracted by something. What do you want to be distracted  _ from?” _

“Aren’t people just allowed to feel down?”

“People are allowed to feel down,” Castiel concedes, “I’d just rather that you didn’t have to.”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“That’s nice of you.”

“I mean it.”

“People feel sad,” Dean points out, “that’s unavoidable.”

“Okay, but maybe there’s a point where people feel as happy as they possibly can. I want you to be at that point, as often as possible.”

“Right back at ya.”

“Have you brought your walkman?”

“D’you wanna listen to some songs?”

“Only good stuff.”

“You  _ know  _ I only have good stuff,” Dean grins, and sits up to rummage in his bag, before pulling out his walkman and headphones. He lies back down next to Castiel and moves close enough to him that they can both share an ear of his headphones. Dean’s breathing slows, the twitching of his hands stills a little.

“Music really calms you down, doesn’t it?” Castiel asks. Dean chuckles gently into the cooling air.

“Yeah,” He admits, “but you don’t have to be a genius to work that out. I  _ get  _ it, which is more than I can say for, like,  _ anything  _ else.”

“You get me,” Castiel points out with a small smile. Dean chuckles again.

“I don’t think anyone could  _ ever  _ get you, Cas.”

Castiel snorts and hits Dean gently. Dean smiles vaguely up at the inky sky.

“You know people make mixtapes for each other?” Dean asks. Castiel nods. “When I learn how to drive, we should do that. Put all our favourite songs on mixtapes, and jam out to them together. We could make each other mixes for our birthdays, for bad days, all of that. You know? That sound cool?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Castiel nods. “You’re already planning on what’s going to happen when you can drive?”

“Of course,” Dean grins. “You know me, Cas—I’ve been playin’ with cars since I could crawl. I can’t wait to play around with a  _ real  _ one.”

“I hope you’re not actually going to be ‘playing around’ with it—”

“You know what I mean,” Dean smiles wistfully. “And I’ll drive us around loads’a places. Up and down the country. We can go on road trips. We can go anywhere! How does that sound?”

“Great, Dean. It sounds great.”

“It’s getting cold,” Dean states, pausing the music and getting up to pull the tarpaulin they use as the treehouse’s roof over all four of its walls. He pulls out his sleeping bag and torch and hangs the latter up on a hook in the far corner of the treehouse from a loop of string at its handle. Castiel follows suit and gets into his sleeping bag, rubbing his eyes a little sleepily.

“Do you think it’ll get much colder?” Castiel asks. Dean pulls a thoughtful face, lips moving down.

“Sun’s already set, but it’ll still probably get a bit colder. We can stay close together for warmth. Plus, I’ve got a hoodie. Have you got one?”

“I’ve got two,” Castiel answers, “because I thought you might forget yours.”

Dean grins.

“You’re a good friend.”

“Thanks.”

“You got any stories?”

Castiel smiles knowingly, complimented, as ever, by Dean’s interest in his writing.

“A few,” He confirms, and pulls his notepad out from his own rucksack.

“Any I haven’t heard before?” Dean asks.

“A few,” Castiel repeats. He pulls the torch down from the hook it hangs on, and opens the pad to its most recent story. Dean beams and pulls his sleeping bag up around himself, the effect of which is deliberately comical, and Castiel loses concentration for a few moments attempting to stifle his laughter. Dean looks delighted. “Okay,” Castiel resumes, gaining control again, “here we go.”

“What’s it about?”

“I guess you won’t find out if you don’t listen,” Castiel points out. Dean laughs.

“Ouch.”

Castiel ignores him with little more than a smirk, and begins. Green eyes that are reflected, almost eerily, in the torchlight, remain trained on him all the while.


	29. Thought of You

 

“Back again, Dean?”

Gabriel grins widely as Dean nervously opens the front door.

“Have you been waiting for me to come in?” Dean asks. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know it took you an embarrassing amount of tries to get the guts to come in,” Gabriel snorts. Dean glowers.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a dick?”

“All the time,” Gabriel beams. “You coming in, or what?”

Dean glances worriedly, momentarily, at the doorframe, before stepping inside. Gabriel watches him with amusement lacing his gaze.

“The house doesn’t bite, you know,” He smirks. Dean rolls his eyes.

“It’s not the house I’m worried about,” He answers, which earns him a bark of laughter from Castiel’s older brother.

“Yeah, I’d almost forgotten about that fight, yesterday.”

“No you hadn’t,” Dean grates his teeth together and makes his way down the corridor, to the living room, where he suspects Cas will be.

“Yeah, maybe not,” Gabriel admits with a brilliant smile. “But shiva is boring. Can you blame me for being entertained by it?” Dean shrugs in answer, and Gabriel continues. “Speaking of, d’you think you’re gonna have another fight, today? ‘Cause that’d be the perfect end to the perfect week.”

This comment comes out sardonic and droll and Gabriel’s voice cracks strangely in his throat. Dean glances at him as if to reconsider the man he has know some twenty-three years.

“It’s been shitty, huh?” He asks. Perhaps his tone and expression are just the right amount of sympathetic and frank, because for the first time this week, Gabriel’s shoulders slump earnestly, and his expression clears with sorrow and despondency and exhaustion.

“Shitty?” He repeats. “Yeah.” A thick swallow, and then he continues. Dean glances quickly, subtly as he can about the room for sign of Castiel, but he isn’t here. “Nobody gets—” He cuts himself off, looking down. “They’re all like,  _ hey, my dad died two years ago,  _ but it wasn’t unexpected for them. The had  _ warning.  _ And I know you can’t prepare for it, of course you can’t  _ ever  _ prepare for it—but after mom, you’d think—right? You’d think we’d get fair notice. Right?”

He looks up at Dean with the eyes of a pleading man. Dean’s brow slopes with sympathy.

“Right,” He agrees. Then, “You angry about it?”

“Pissed,” Gabriel’s lip curls minutely. “I don’t know if Cas or Michael  _ get  _ that. But I’m  _ pissed.  _ This isn’t fair. This isn’t how things are supposed to happen.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “It’s shit.”

Gabriel looks at Dean intently.

“But you get that, don’t you, Dean?” Dean falters, unsure what it is Gabriel means, but he continues. “I mean—I know this is way out of line for me to say—but your dad died in an accident—so you get it, don’t you? It’s like, he’s been ripped away from you. And there’s no time for goodbyes, no time for—for  _ anything.  _ You’re just left. Half a person, it feels like.”

Dean reaches out to Gabriel without thinking, hand on his shoulder.

“Totally,” He agrees. “And being pissed about it—that’s fine. That’s right. It’s right, if it’s how you feel. That’s what Jimmy said to me when my dad died, and it was like, the only thing anyone said that comforted me. So now I’m saying it to you.  _ Jimmy  _ was pretty much the only person who comforted me, except—”

Speak of the devil.

Gabriel follows Dean’s gaze to the doorway, where his younger brother now stands.

“Cas,” Dean finishes, both as greeting, and as an end to his sentence. Castiel’s lips twitch up minutely, though reluctantly, and he steps into the room.

“I’ll fuck off,” Gabriel slips away from Dean and out the room, Dean’s gaze follows him only for a moment before it returns to Castiel.

“Thank you for coming,” Cas says, sitting down on one of the low chairs at the wall of the room.

“That’s—” Dean’s throat contracts. “That’s totally fine, Cas.”

Castiel smiles a little more perceptibly, this time.

“No gifts, tonight?” He asks, almost with amusement. Dean flushes. He sits in the chair opposite Castiel’s.

“Uh—” He fumbles, “actually, I found—and obviously, you’ll probably already have a copy of this—but I found this really nice edition—”

Cas eyes him with something not too far removed from suspicion. It puts Dean even more at unease.

“You probably won’t even want it—” His face is burning and feels as though it flakes at its corners like paper when it catches alight, but he reaches into his jacket pocket along the lining of the inside, and pulls out the  _ Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas _ , in an old hardback copy with a pretty icy blue cover that does  _ not,  _ absolutely not, remind Dean of Castiel’s eyes. “And I dunno—do you even like him? Maybe it was a stupid gift, but I saw it, and I thought—well, poems always  _ used  _ to cheer you up—”  

Castiel begins to laugh. Dean stops rambling, totally taken aback, and lets the book fall onto his lap.

He stares questioningly at Cas.

“I’ve—after so many years of knowing you, Dean,” Castiel rumbles, eyes surprisingly warm, and—watery? “I honestly feel as though I only ever knew  _ of  _ you.”

Uh, right.

“What?”

“What I mean,” Castiel chuckles, “is that you still, somehow, manage to surprise me.”

“Oh,” Dean looks down. Then he presses the book into Cas’s hand. “So is it okay?”

“Okay?” Castiel repeats, frowning quizzically. Dean gestures down to the book in answer. “Oh,” The writer’s expression turns warm again. Dean hasn’t seen it so warm in  _ years.  _ What has he done to deserve this kind of warmth? “Yes, Dean,” Castiel confirms. “More than okay. Very—it’s very thoughtful of you. All of this. I’d almost forgotten how thoughtful you were.  _ Are.”  _ He corrects himself.

Dean flushes furiously at this undue praise, and Cas notices, his expression turning troubled on account of Dean’s blushing.

Which—ah, shit. Dean is only just remembering how it is things happened, all those years ago. Cas thinks, inevitably, that Dean is blushing because he’s embarrassed to be complemented by a guy who happens to be attracted to other dudes. And Cas thinks that Dean is the straightest arrow out there—which, even though it’s Dean’s fault Castiel thinks this—still couldn’t be further from the truth.

“I, uh—” Dean looks down. “You’re giving me more credit than I’m due. I’ve been a shitty friend. I want to be a better one.”

Castiel’s expression is soft.

“I don’t think you’ve been a shitty friend, Dean.”

The words are spoken gently, almost whispered, and they still somehow manage to pummel at Dean’s soul, turning it black and blue.

“And I don’t think you’re telling the truth—”

“People grow apart,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “People have fights. Isn’t that normal? Does that make you a shitty friend? Of course not. I’m not angry about what happened. Not anymore.”

Dean  _ really  _ can’t look at Cas, now. Neither of them have mentioned what happened that night, neither of them have mentioned the fight, since first seeing each other this week, for the first time in nine years. It has weighed heavy between them, and swung like a pendulum, gaining momentum and pressing resentment into each of their interactions, but now Castiel has actually  _ acknowledged  _ it.

So what next?

“Well, you should be,” Dean answers, gruff. “ _ I  _ would be.”

Castiel glares.

Obviously, and once again, Dean has said entirely the wrong thing.

“What does that even mean? And why do you say it?”

Dean opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“I don’t understand you, Dean,” Castiel repeats the sentiment, again, and shakes his head. “I don’t think I ever will. Maybe once I did—or, thought I did—but you’re so intent on digging up the past. And in a mangled, bruising way. It’s ugly. It  _ feels  _ ugly. Why is that? Why do you do it?”

Dean shrugs, avoiding Cas’s gaze.

_ Because I didn’t get any closure. _

_ Because you just  _ left, _ and I never got to explain myself. _

_ Because you don’t even seem to care any more. And I want to see if you still do, if you ever did. _

“Because—” Dean tries, “I don’t,” His lips turn downward and he begins to feel ill. “Because Jimmy was like a father to me, too.”

Castiel’s expression softens.

“Well, I know  _ that,  _ Dean.”

_ Do you? _

“In any case,” Castiel begins again, tone a little more practical and far less emotive, “thank you for the book. It  _ was  _ very thoughtful, and I’m grateful for it. It’s a nice edition. And I like Dylan Thomas—so you needn’t worry.”

Dean smiles weakly.

“I was, uh—at Jimmy’s burial—I couldn’t stop thinking about that poem you showed me.”

Castiel’s head inclines to the side.

“Which poem, Dean?”

“The one—Allen Ginsberg?—And you showed me it, because it reminded you of your mom—”

“Song?” Castiel asks. “Or Kaddish?”

“Kaddish,” Dean answers. He plays with his hands. “Anyway, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The lines kept running through my head.”

“It’s quite a long poem, Dean,” Castiel replies, almost with a laugh, and Dean is tempted to feel affronted, that Castiel would even think to mock or tease him at this confession.

“Well, yeah,” He agrees, “but my head was moving that fast. It wouldn’t shut up. I couldn’t stop thinking about things—about a lot of things. And that was one of the things. The lines just kept reeling through my brain.”

Castiel nods, gaze on the floor, rather than Dean.

“I think I was a little different to that,” He says, slowly. “My brain kind of shut down. My limbs felt disjointed. I was—” He laughs shortly, but it turns bitter and distorted in an instant. “I was a stranger in my own body. That’s how it felt. Everything was numbness.”

Dean’s throat closes up, eyes stinging.

He wonders if, now, of all times, if he told Castiel the truth—the truth of how he feels, how he has always felt, and explained away the lies—if Castiel would return the sentiment. Tell Dean he loves him, too. Tell Dean he is forgiven. Tell Dean he wants to make a home with him, forever.

But no. It’s too late. Of course it’s too late.

“I know I’m maybe the last person you’d want to talk to, Cas,” Dean acknowledges, “and you must’ve gotten a lot of these offers from a lot of different people, by now; but if you ever need anything— _ anything— _ a friend, someone to vent to, someone to—” Dean cuts himself off. “ _ Anything,”  _ He starts again, “just say the word. And I’ll be here. I promise.”

Castiel stares at Dean with glittering eyes.

His voice comes out short and crackles in his throat.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“It’s nothing,” Dean shakes his head. “You’re family, Cas,” He decides. “We— _I—_ care about you.”

And he means it. But Castiel can never know how much.


	30. Where I Feel Safe

“I’m scared…”

Castiel holds onto his daddy’s coat. His fingers curl around the fabric and he toes worriedly at the ground.

Jimmy had tried to make Castiel feel less nervous about today, buying him a bumblebee bag with yellow and black stripes and antenna, reading stories with him about first days at school and other children who felt scared, too, and it  _ had  _ worked, just… It isn’t working now, standing outside the classroom door.

“I don’t wanna go in,” Castiel decides, pulling his daddy back, still holding onto his coat. “Can we go home? Please?”

Jimmy looks down at him sadly, but it only makes things worse.

“I want to go home,” Castiel states, eyes welling up with tears as he looks up at his dad. “I don’t like it—”

“You  _ will  _ like it,” Jimmy promises. He bends down to Castiel’s height, like he always does whenever they’re about to have a serious talk, crouching down on the balls of his feet so that he can look his youngest child in the eye. “I promise, Cassie—would you just give it a chance, please? Dean’s already in there, look.”

Castiel’s father points inside, to where Dean sits on a brightly patterned, geometrical carpet, playing with with a train set quite happily, babbling to a little boy next to him with brown hair and a red t-shirt and black shorts and blue sneakers. Dean smiles brightly, but it only makes Castiel feel all the more upset. Dean has already made a new friend, Castiel hasn’t made  _ any— _ he won’t be any good at this, and Dean will leave him for his new friend with brown hair and a red shirt.

Castiel’s daddy drove Dean and Castiel to kindergarten together. Dean had been on the edge of his seat with excitement, bouncing up and down, kicking the passenger seat in front of him, beaming at Castiel and asking him how many friends he thought he was going to make and whether their teacher would be nice and whether they’d get to play with _all_ the toys, or just some of them.

Castiel had sat still and looked down and squeezed his hands together and wished he was back in his bedroom.

As soon as they’d arrived, Dean had scampered in, without a backwards glance, full of energy and practically bouncing off the walls as he decided what toys he should play with first.

Castiel is taking a little more persuasion.

Dean has noticed that Jimmy and Castiel are looking over to him, and stares back, pausing in his playing, raising his eyebrows inquisitively, before beginning to frown. Castiel begins to cry, real, proper, round tears that are hot and shameful on his face.

Dean says something to the boy next to him and gets up, making his way over to Castiel and his dad.

“Cas,” Dean bends down to peer earnestly into Castiel’s eyes because Castiel has pressed his gaze pointedly to the floor to cover the embarrassment of crying. Castiel tries to look away. Dean takes a hold of Castiel’s hands. “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”

Castiel wants to pull away and finds that he’s crying too hard to actually be able to answer.

“Cassie’s feeling a little nervous, Dean,” Castiel’s daddy explains, voice quiet, to keep anyone in the room from hearing them.

“Oh,” Dean says, taken aback. His green eyes are wide, and drift away from Castiel to a point in the distance. Castiel feels terribly self-conscious, face hot. Dean thinks he’s a baby for being scared of kindergarten. It’s not a big deal. Castiel is being a  _ baby. _

Dean squeezes his hand.

“I didn’t realise you were nervous,” Dean states. His gaze returns to Castiel, and is so sincere that the black haired boy has to take the smallest of steps backwards. “I’m sorry,” He says, green eyes beautiful and big as they peer honestly at Castiel. “I was just so excited. I didn’t know you might be worrying. I’m sorry.”

Castiel shakes his head and tries to reassure Dean that it’s not his fault, but no words come out.

“What is it you’re worried about?” Dean asks. His hand has slid to the cuff of Castiel’s coat and clings there, tightly, so that Castiel couldn’t run away even if he wanted to.

The dark haired boy shrugs, looking down, mortified.

“Is it the people?” Dean asks. “‘Cause they’re really nice. And if they’re not, we won’t be friends with them, so it’s fine. We’ll just be friends with the nice people, okay?”

Castiel’s lips quirk upwards.

“And remember how scared you were when you first met me?” Dean asks, with a laugh. “You thought  _ I  _ was scary. Now you’re my best friend. Maybe you’ve got even more people to be best friends with in there,” Dean points to the classroom.

But Castiel only wants to be best friends with  _ Dean. _

Dean senses that he’s losing ground, so he continues along a different vein.

“And I’ll show you the people I’ve already made friends with. You can be friends with them, too. They’re really nice—and so are you! It’ll be easy, I promise.”

He gives Castiel a gentle pull. Castiel takes a step forward, closer to the doorway. Jimmy watches silently, crouched on the ground, with interest, and with the tiniest smile imaginable on his lips. 

“They’ve even got a storybook corner with cushions and everything,” Dean adds, and at this, Castiel really  _ does  _ smile. Dean beams in response. He pulls Castiel along a little further. “And you’re my best friend!” Dean exclaims excitedly. “So I already know how great you are. Just wait ‘til everyone else does!”

Jimmy smiles and stands, Castiel looks back at him as he is dragged along, a little nervously, but Castiel’s daddy smiles encouragingly, giving him two thumbs-up.

“Have fun,” He mouths. “I love you!”

“You’ll come back?” Castiel asks, calling the question to his father.

Jimmy laughs warmly, smiling affectionately at his son.

“In a couple of hours, I’ll be standing right outside this door again, waiting for you. I promise. Okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel concedes.

His daddy waves. Castiel waves back. Then Dean turns him around and sits him on the floor in front of the trains.

“This is Samandriel,” Dean points to the boy with the red shirt and blue sneakers. “He likes trains, like me! Samandriel, this is Cas. He’s really called Castiel.” Dean squeezes his arm around Castiel’s body. “He’s my best friend in the whole world. D’you wanna be his friend?”

“Okay,” Samandriel smiles wide and welcoming. “Do you want to see where we’re supposed to hang our bags up?” He asks, pointing to Castiel’s bumblebee backpack.

“Um…” Castiel shifts, unsure that he wants to part with it, holding onto the handles a little tighter.

“You pick it up at the end of the day,” Dean explains. “Look, we’ll show you!”

And he drags Castiel over to another corner of the room, to where coat pegs are all lined up neatly, with names and pictures underneath them. Samandriel follows, jumping up and down in the same way Dean does.

“Here,” Dean points to the pegs. “They have our names on them—but I don’t know which one is yours—the lady showed me mine…” He looks back to a young woman sat at a desk in the corner of the room, marking names down on a register. It’s the same woman that Jimmy had to explain to about Castiel being nervous, the same woman who said that Castiel could wait outside with his daddy a bit before feeling brave enough to come inside. She looks up at him now and notices Castiel looking at him, smiling widely and waving at him.

Castiel smiles, less nervously than before, back at her.

Then he turns back to the pegs.

“Here,” Castiel points, relieved to see that the name  _ Castiel  _ is written in yellow, next to  _ Dean,  _ in red, above the adjacent peg. “It’s next to yours.”

“Great!” Dean glows. “My picture’s a dog. What’s yours of?”

Castiel looks to the picture below his peg.

“A giraffe.”

He hangs his bag and his coat up, already feeling more at ease.

“Sorry it’s not a bee.”

“That’s okay,” Castiel smiles. “I like giraffes. They’re in one of my favourite colours.”

“My picture’s of a zebra,” Samandriel states, pointing way down towards the end of the line of pegs. “But I’m not next to you two.”

“The pegs are in alphabetical order,” Castiel points to his name, then Dean’s, then Samandriel’s. “C is next to D, but S is near the end.”

“Cas is the cleverest person I know,” Dean beams, putting his arm around Castiel again and hugging him into his side. “Who’s the cleverest person you know?”

Samandriel hums, pulling a thinking face.

“Maybe my big brother,” He decides with a smile.

“I have a big brother too! I have two big brothers!”

“What are they called?”

“Michael—”

“—And Gabriel,” Dean finishes excitedly for Castiel. “I’ve met Gabriel. He’s super grown up. But Michael’s even  _ bigger.” _

“My brother’s nine.”

“I’ve got a brother, but he’s a little brother,” Dean explains. “Wanna go play trains again?”

“Okay!”

Dean takes hold of Castiel’s hand again and pulls him back over to the colourful carpet to sit down and play. Castiel’s arms and legs feel relaxed, his chest feels less tight, his eyes don’t sting with the prickle of tears anymore. He smiles over to Dean, who looks up at just the right moment, sensing Castiel’s gaze on him, and grins broadly, all toothy and freckley and green-eyed and beautiful and loud and absolutely, undeniably, Castiel’s best friend in the whole wide world.


	31. Tremble in Your Voice

 

Three weeks have passed since Castiel last saw Dean, on the final day of shiva. The writer wonders if he actually _did_ allow himself appropriate time to mourn, intensely, or whether he did it wrong—he’s hardly been able to leave the house, for sorrow, even though now that shiva is over, and he actually _can._

He meets with Balthazar a couple of times over coffee and has to sweeten his own drink to the point that it is sickening, and the other man raises his eyebrows in his signature quiet English distaste. But still Castiel does not see Dean.

And not for lack of Dean’s trying: Castiel slumped into something, not a depression, but a lethargy and world-weariness so profound that he found could not reply to any of Dean’s messages—messages checking up on him, asking if he wanted to get a drink, needed company. Now, Castiel cannot reply—not for lethargy, but for embarrassment, awkwardness. And Dean’s messages have stopped altogether.

But he receives a call from the principal of his old High School on the morning of his third week into social isolation, asking if he would like to take a visit to Lawrence High and maybe, if he is in the mood, give a talk of some kind to the students interested.

Castiel is not in the mood.

But Michael is present in the room—the kitchen—when Castiel receives the call; and raises his eyebrows questioningly at his younger brother when the writer hesitates in his answer, reluctant to move anywhere further than the front garden. Then his brows furrow when Castiel begins his declining answer, the one thanking Mr Colt for the offer, but explaining that he isn’t sure he’s up for it. Finally, Michael taps Castiel’s arm incessantly, and after attempting to wave his older brother off, which doesn’t work, gesturing crudely at him to leave, which doesn’t work, Castiel finally gives in.

“Actually,” He sighs, and tries to make it sound as sincere as possible, “maybe I should. It’d probably be good for me to get out the house,” He states, and looks up at Michael pointedly, communicating an _I hope you’re happy now?!_ And then continues, “And it’d be nice to visit my old school. So… sure?”

 _“Excellent,”_ Colt’s voice sounds from the other end of the line. The sound of flipping through pages, and the clicking of a pen. _“So, next week? Thursday?”_

“Sure.”

 _“Thank you so much, Castiel. It’s always good to have ex-students come and encourage the kids. I’m sure they’ll find your story_ so _rewarding.”_

“Right,” Castiel murmurs, unconvinced. “Thanks. See you then.”

 _“Come by at eight-thirty. You’ll remember where my office is?”_ Then he laughs. _“Perhaps not—you were such a good student, after all. I can’t remember you getting sent to me at all. That friend of yours, Mr Winchester, on the other hand?”_ He laughs again. Castiel holds his phone away from his ear. _“He was in regular attendance of the principal's office, I’m sure you remember. Well, they say that the worst students make the best teachers. He’s certainly proved that right.”_

Oh, shit.

Of course.

How could Castiel be so stupid?

Dean _teaches_ at Lawrence High, now.

Which means—ah, fuck.

Cas will have to see him again.

“ _I’ll be in contact about the content of your talk later, I’m afraid I’m a little crammed in this morning. But we’ll discuss it soon. Sounds good?”_

“Sounds good,” Castiel repeats, hollowly, entirely insincere.

He hangs up.

Michael’s gaze presses down on him expectantly, and Castiel meets it with a glare.

 _“Stop_ trying to run my life,” He bites up at his older brother.

Michael rolls his eyes.

“I’m not trying to run it, I’m trying to _fix_ it.”

“When did I ask you to do that?!” Castiel exclaims. “Fuck! You’re worse than _Gabriel!”_

“Stop overreacting! You’re doing a talk at a school, it’s not the end of the world—”

 _“Dean_ works there!”

Michael tries—and fails—to pull a surprised expression.

“He does?” He asks, feigning a nonplussed tone. Castiel could punch him. “Oh. Well, I guess you’ll get to see him again. That’s a happy coincidence—”

“It is _not_ happy,” Castiel grates out. “Don’t you think that if I _wanted_ to see him, that’s what I’d do?”

“I don’t think you know what you want anymore. I think you’re too scared to see Dean,” Michael crosses his arms matter-of-factly. “And I think that it’s stupid. Nine years, Cassie. Nine _years._ What happened?”

“Here’s a radical idea,” Castiel starts, squinting thoughtfully at his brother and standing up, from where he had been sitting, at the kitchen table, “stay out of my life, out of my business and for once just mind your own!”

“Why are you berating me for caring about you?!”

“I’m berating you for meddling!” Castiel fumes, storming out the room and up the stairs.

“Where’re you going?” Michael calls up, running to the foot of the stairs.

“Out!” Castiel exclaims. “On a run! Anywhere but here!”

He slams the door of his bedroom and changes into running shorts and a tee, pulling his trainers on angrily and not bothering to untie the laces. He races downstairs, where Michael still waits for him.

“Wait,” Michael tries, as Castiel pushes past.

“Shouldn’t you have gone home by now, Michael?” Castiel asks, squinting indignantly, again. “You only had to be here a week. When we were kids, you couldn’t _wait_ to leave. Why’re you staying here when you don’t have to, now?”

“When _you_ were a kid, Castiel,” Michael rolls his eyes, “I was a young adult. And this house will only _ever_ remind me of the fact that mom died,” His jaw clenches. “I’m staying here for you, because I’m worried about you—and so is Hael, and so is—”

“I never asked you to worry,” Castiel scowls.

“No, but it's what people do,” Michael presses as Castiel opens the front door, picking up his iPod from where it sits, on the windowsill, and plugging himself in. “And you can’t tell people how it is they should and shouldn’t worry about you! That’s not how it works!” He calls these words out louder, now, because Castiel has exited the house and is walking down the front porch steps. “If you act in a way that makes people worry, then—!”

But Castiel has raised his middle finger to his brother, and started to run, turning his music up as loud as it will go.

It’s actually kind of perfect, because his iPod is filled with all the songs of his youth—which, naturally, means _angst—_ and the bite of cold—why the fuck did he only wear _s_ horts and a tee in this weather?! Along with his anger—make Castiel run _fast._ He’s made it into the centre of town before he knows it—legs ready to buckle beneath him out of exhaustion, stinging and burning because, idiot that he is, Castiel didn’t even bother warming up, just ran, and pelted it.

He slumps onto the curb, breathing fast and painful, stabbing at his ribs. Passers by look at him with a bewildered curiosity. Some look at him a little more indignant than that. But he doesn't care. He stares at the ground, and the blue-black-grey of it, wiping away the sweat on his brow and the spit round his mouth, and breathes heavy, lungs on fire, until the rapid rise and fall of his chest steadies out.

Then he feels guilty.

The guilt that is like black waters rising steadily through lungs, soaking him deeper than bone. Guilt about how he shouted at Michael, pushed him away, guilt about Dean, his mistreatment of him. Guilt about how his grief has swallowed him and threatened, for a moment, to make him forget that anybody else existed.

He groans and stands up, muscles burning, utterly parched. Realising, kicking himself, that he has no money to buy water, or any kind of drink, Castiel begins a slow and tedious walk back home.

The first rumble of thunder, Castiel hardly notices. His head isn’t in the clouds, it’s on another _planet,_ and he hadn’t noticed the sky darkening, the streets clearing, the clouds overhead growing bigger and greyer, heavier and gloomier.

But he notices when the rain begins.

It _pours._

In an instant. And the next clap of thunder and lightning is enough to make him jump.

So he begins to run again. He runs, he thinks, like the rain: pelting down the streets just as it pelts down from the heavens. There is, inevitably, something kind of freeing in the action, despite the danger brought on by the rolling thunderstorm, and the freeze of his skin, the cracking of his skull with every stamp of his foot on an increasingly soaked pavement. Even when his feet slip on the slick streets, he doesn’t care, just carries on pummeling his way down the streets with the speed, and good sense, of a cannonball.

In the blur of rain, gray under dark clouds and over dark concrete, Castiel totally misses the car when he decides to run across the road.

A screech of tires, a loud, furious beep, and Castiel slips on the middle of the road out of shock and lousy coordination, but somehow dodges the car. Or, rather, the car dodges _him,_ and pulls to a stop a little way away, before a figure in the rain jumps out, slamming the door, and runs over to him.

Castiel looks down to examine the damage he has done to himself: nothing severe—his hands are grazed and a little bloodied from the fall, which has promised to leave him with a few bruises, he’s sure—but that’s the worst of it.

Is it good luck that he isn’t hurt, or bad luck that he got caught out in the rain, tried to cross the road, nearly got hit, in the first place?

“Shit, I didn’t hit you?” The voice of the figure shouts over the din of the rain. “Are you okay? The hell were you doing, running out onto the road like that?!”

Castiel looks up.

He should’ve recognised the car, but his thoughts had been entirely elsewhere, and in the heavy rain, it was nothing but a pretty, blurry outline of black, anyway.

“Cas?”

The figure squints at him in disbelief and holds a hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain.

Dean.

He tries to get up, but his muscles are shaky, and out of shock, his legs seem for a moment unable to hold him.

“Hey,” Dean bolts towards him, now, and is by his side in an instant, helping him up. “Shit, Cas, I’m so sorry—”

Castiel waves him off.

“No, why should you be?” The rain thunders around them. His hands sting a little. “I was being stupid, I was jaywalking. I ran across a road in the rain—I mean, how dumb can you get?”

“Are you—” Dean is looking at him hard. But whatever emotion is hidden behind Dean’s eyes, is shrouded by the rain. “Are you okay, Cas?”

“Fine,” Castiel confirms, nodding. He looks down and swallows, surprised by how much it hurts. “I’m fine. Thank you. I’m fine.”

A pause.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what the hell were you doing running that fast in the rain?”

Castiel shrugs.

He laughs awkwardly, choosing to be honest.

“Getting away from Michael.”

Dean frowns, but it hardly shows in the grey shower surrounding them.

“He’s still at home? I mean—your old home?”

Castiel nods.

“He’s worried about me, apparently,” He explains, and sighs. “He doesn’t want to go yet. But it was suffocating me, so I—well, I got out the house, which is what he actually wanted me to do, I think.”

Dean’s expression is just as thoughtful as it is troubled.

“Why’s he worried about you?”

Castiel laughs shortly, and perhaps it comes out a little bitter, because Dean’s legs twitch as though he is tempted to take a step back and withdraw.

“Because my dad just died,” The writer admits, and rubs his arms in the freezing cold of the rain. “And I’m not going outside—save for now,” He gestures, “And a couple of other times.”

“Oh,” Dean says softly. Castiel barely hears it over the storm.

“I’m isolating myself, apparently,” Castiel adds, matter-of-factly, though he isn’t sure why. Then he catches himself. “What’re you doing, anyway? shouldn’t you have been working, today?”

“Work’s over, Cas,” Dean explains, with something not unlike a laugh. “It’s nearly five. I was just gonna see Mary, check up on her. How long have you been running for?”

Castiel looks up at the sky, for some indicator of time, but wherever the sun is, it’s hidden by innumerable clouds.

“Quite some time,” He admits. “I only started because I was tired of Michael worrying and interfering—I wanted to get out—”

“You’ve said.”

Castiel nods, breathing in deep and drawing his thoughts back to himself.

“Right.”

He looks back over to Dean.

His heart chokes him.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been replying to any of your texts, Dean.” He says, earnestly. Dean’s eyes fill suddenly with both pain, and understanding.

“That’s okay, Cas,” He replies. “I get it.”

“And I’m sorry for not answering any of your calls,” Castiel continues. “I know you’re only worrying about me—”

“Hey, I get it if it felt overbearing. I wasn’t trying to do anything like that—but you have two older brothers to look out for you—”

“I’d rather have—”

Castiel cuts himself off.

Had he really been just about to say—to confess—how much Dean caring has always meant to him?

“Have—have what?” Dean asks. He stares at Castiel so earnestly that Castiel has to look away when his answer of a lie comes to his lips.

_You. I’d rather have you._

“Have two older brothers who didn’t worry,” He makes up on the spot, “and just let me get along with things.”

_I’d rather have you worrying about me than any amount of older brothers._

“Oh,” Dean nods. “That—you can look after yourself, I guess.”

Castiel laughs.

“I’m older than you, Dean,” He reminds. Dean smiles thoughtfully.

“Yeah, but you’re not an older brother,” He comments. “It’s different for us.”

Standing in the rain, Dean has grown just as soaked as Castiel.

“Maybe,” The writer admits. “And running gave me time to think.”

“Think about what?”

“About how shitty I’ve been,” Castiel admits. Dean frowns.

“You haven’t been shitty, Cas. Why d’you think you’ve been shitty?”

The writer shrugs.

“Pushing Michael away, when he’s only trying to help. He’s got an inflated sense of duty, so he’s probably trying to play father to me, now, as well as mother, as well as older brother, as well as you name it.”

Dean’s expression fills with sorrow.

“I’ve also been shitty to you,” Castiel continues, but Dean shakes his head. Droplets of water splash out from the ends of his hair.

“We’ve been through this, Cas. No you haven’t.”

“I’ve been ignoring your messages,” Castiel presses. Then he shakes his head quickly, so that water bursts out from the ends of its soaked tufts, too, and Dean’s lips twitch upwards, for whatever reason, however minutely. “Well, not ignoring,” He amends. “Honestly, I haven’t—it’s so hard to reply to anyone, you know?”

“I get it—”

“No, but I want to say it, anyway,” The writer persists. “And—and it’s meant a lot to me, that you’d think to message me so often, so consistently. Just to check if I was okay. That’s really kind of you. I’m sorry that I haven’t replied. It… I think it hurt, too much.”

Dean’s mouth is open. He stares at Castiel in a way that makes him ache.

“I understand.”

The writer cannot help but smile.

“And now,” He laughs, “I’ve ran in front of your car in the middle of a thunderstorm, nearly given you a heart attack, I’m sure, and then dragged you out in the pouring rain and freezing cold just to have a conversation about how _I’m_ doing. I really _have_ been shitty.”

Dean laughs, too—the kind of laughter that is shared at a genuinely funny joke, albeit one that a stranger has made. It hurts and heals Castiel to hear.

“You’re going home?” Dean asks, after collecting himself. Castiel nods. “Then let me drive you.”

He begins to walk back to his car.

“Oh, I—”

“That’s not a request, Cas,” Dean calls over his shoulder, at a rumble of thunder. “You’ll catch your death out here, otherwise, and I don’t wanna be guilty of manslaughter.”

Castiel laughs and jogs after him.

“That’s not what manslaughter is, Dean.”

“You sure about that?” Dean asks, squinting as though unconvinced, from the passenger’s side.

“Pretty certain, yes.” Castiel confirms with a chuckle.

“Well than,” Dean frowns thoughtfully, “we’ll just have to agree to disagree, I guess. Anyway, I’ve gotta make up for nearly killing you—”

“You didn’t nearly kill me,” Castiel rolls his eyes, as Dean gets in.

“Take a look at your hands, Cas,” Dean comments, as Castiel gets into the Impala, too. Castiel looks at them.

“They’re not so bad,” He shrugs.

“That could've been _all_ of you. All across the road,” Dean nods candidly, staring at Castiel. _“Splat._ Can you imagine.”

Castiel begins to laugh again.

“I’ll count myself lucky, then.”

“I just feel so _guilty.”_

“I’ve said not to.”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles, “like _that’s_ gonna stop me.”

Castiel chuckles, too.

“Fair point.”

Dean starts the engine, but only to put the heat on. He turns back to Castiel.

“There’s a first aid kit, in the glove compartment, if you think you need it.”

“Somehow, I think I’ll live without.”

“You’re funny.”

“You’re sweet.”

Dean barks out a laugh. The smile lingers on his face, then seems to fade too suddenly. Castiel watches him, as Dean watches the rain patter quietly on the windscreen. Somewhere in the distance, lightning flashes.

“You sound kind of British now, you know,” Dean comments, turning back to Castiel.

“You think so?” The dark haired man frowns. “I haven’t got an accent—”

“No, not an _accent,”_ Dean shakes his head, “but you’ve picked up mannerisms. I don’t know. Their sense of humour. And some words, and turns of phrase. And some things you really _do_ say like a Brit. I don’t know. Obviously I’m not an authority; I’ve never been—”

“I’ve lived there for nine years,” Castiel states. “I suppose—-well, of course I’ve picked a whole number of things up, I’d imagine.”

Dean looks down.

“Of course.”

Something swells inside of Castiel and almost bursts onto his lips. Dean seems to sense it, because he looks up—and as their gazes meet, he smiles, a sweet and sad smile that reaches his eyes and makes them watery.

“Your hair’s gone all curly.”

His voice rumbles with amusement and warmth and nostalgia, his chest visibly constricts, then loosens, as though going through some great anguish, some sorrow untold. What is he thinking about?

Castiel runs a hand through his still damp hair and finds that the ends are, indeed, beginning to curl.

“Yes,” He nods.

“It always did in the rain.”

Castiel laughs.

“It still does, you’ll be relieved to know.”

Dean chuckles, too, but seems distracted.

“What is it?” Castiel asks with a frown.

“Is your hair black, or brown?” He asks. “I’ve never been able to tell.”

Castiel snorts.

“How long can you hold your attention on any one thing, Dean?” He inquires. “Longer than when we were kids? Not by much, I bet.”

“Shut up, I’m being serious,” Dean replies, abashed. “Is it brown, or black? ‘Cause in some light—”

“Is yours brown, or blonde?” Castiel counters. “Because in some light—”

Dean chuckles.

“Okay, point taken.” His hands return to the wheel. “I’ll take you home.”

But Castiel doesn’t want to go home. Of course he doesn’t.

The rain crackles at the roof above them.

Dean’s skin is soaked.

Castiel’s eyes catch on his jawline, on the tufts of hair pulled down by water. The sodden shirt, clinging to muscle. He feels like a teenager again.

And he wishes he could stay here, stay a teenager, in this moment, forever.

But of course, that isn’t how life works.

And he realises with a terrible jolt of his stomach that he’d thought he was over Dean, was no longer in love with him, hadn’t loved him for nine whole years, was over his childhood crush and was on an open road unfettered by tedious matters of love undying and the belief in unrequited soulmates.

But of course, that isn’t how life works, either.


	32. I Want to Tell You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sad (sorry). But the next chapter will be up tomorrow!

**(Monday, April 9th, 2007)**

**(Dean and Cas are 18)**

 

Castiel opens the front door.

He’s not a morning person. Everyone knows this. But now, more than ever, he wishes he could be buried in his sheets, a mess of hair and limbs and pillows, unaware of the world—with the world gorgeously unaware of him. 

“Hey,” He greets, shoulders tense already with worry, body little more than a tight, tall knot on Castiel’s front porch.

“Hello,” Castiel greets. Only two words have been exchanged, yet already their conversation is terse and peculiar. They, who each know the other better than anyone in the world, they, who prior to Saturday night, had no problem in talking for hours and hours and would more readily greet each other with an insult than a salutation. “You knocked,” Castiel observes, stepping away from the door to pick up the last of his things.

“Uh,” Dean fumbles, “yeah.”

Castiel turns back to Dean from where he squats, on the floor, packing the last of his things into his backpack, and frowns.

“And normally you just… come in,” Castiel elaborates.

“I know,” Dean toes at the ground, averting his gaze.

Castiel stands, huffing indignantly.

“So I guess I’ve pissed you off, or something?” He asks. “Only you didn’t see me yesterday, didn’t even say hi—”

“What?” Dean asks, sputtering indignantly. “No—I’m not pissed—”

Castiel pushes past Dean and closes the door behind them.

“Cas,” Dean reasons, chasing after him down the porch steps. “Why’re  _ you  _ pissed? What’s going on, buddy?”

Castiel stops short, halfway down the path of the front yard, and sighs. Birds are chirruping faintly in the trees. Sunflowers have sprung up brightly all over the grass, tulips flower, orange and red in the flowerbeds. The sky, a pale blue with the start of the day, promises rain later on by the heavy, electric energy it is charged with.

“I’m not angry,” Castiel frowns, turning back to Dean. “But I—you  _ are  _ acting differently around me, Dean.”

“I’m—” Dean shuffles again, looking away. “I’m not meaning to,” He replies honestly, rubbing the nape of his neck with his right hand. “I just thought we might not be back to normal…”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Castiel asks, deadpan.

Dean sucks his teeth.

“I dunno—after our fight on Saturday? We didn’t really get to debrief because—”

“Because I puked, and fell out of your car,” Castiel recalls. Dean squirms at the naming of it. “And you told me to get out of your car, and walk home,” Castiel adds, this tinged with the bitterness of vindictive accusation.

Dean looks ashamed.

“Yeah,” He admits. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t mean to?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at Dean, disappointed by the feebleness of this excuse. Honestly, he thought his best friend was  _ creative.  _

“No, not like that,” Dean shakes his head, flushed, realising how terrible justification sounded, “I just—it was a shitty night for me, okay? I was in a bad mood, and you were saying some things, about Lisa and about me, and I shouldn’t have reacted like I did—but I  _ did  _ react that way, and I’m sorry.”

“A bad mood?” Castiel repeats, beginning to walk down the path again.

“Uh-huh,” Dean confirms, following after him. Something in his tone betrays distraction and worry.

“Because it was a shitty night?” Castiel asks.

They make it to the road and to the Impala, and Dean unlocks it and opens his door. Castiel doesn’t do the same.

“Right,” Dean confirms, pausing to frown at Castiel.

“So why was it a shitty night?” Castiel asks.

He surprises even himself by how blunt and unforgiving his question forms as it leaves his mouth.

Dean flushes.

Castiel’s worst suspicions—fears—are confirmed. 

He glares, then open his door and gets in the car.

“Cas,” Dean scrambles in after him. “Not like that—”

“I get it, Dean,” Castiel shrugs, “it’s always a disappointment when you  _ best bro  _ turns out to be queer—”

“Don’t use that voice,” Dean frowns from the driver’s seat, “and don’t pull that face.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re making fun of me.”

“You’re  _ angry  _ with me because of my  _ sexuality!” _

_ “When  _ did I say that, Cas?!” Dean shouts over him.  _ “When?!  _ And when did you become so fucking petty? What the hell is up with you?! I’ve said I’m cool with your sexuality, I think I’ve proven it—what more do you want me to say?!”

“How have you ‘proven’ that you’re not homophobic?” Castiel asks with a scowl.

Dean swallows thickly. His whole upper body quakes with the action, he moves his hands to the steering wheel and grips tight, knuckles whitening in the static car.

“I’ve been cool with Charlie for what—three years now, right?” He asks. “Moment she came out. I was cool with it. No homophobic bullshit. No jokes about lesbians—in fact, when have you  _ ever  _ heard me make a homophobic joke? I had no problem with Charlie— _ have  _ no problem with Charlie. Why would I have a problem with you?”

“Charlie’s a lesbian,” Castiel answers, as though this much ought to have been obvious.

“Uh, I know,” Dean replies, mimicking Castiel’s tone but blowing it way out of proportion so as to make Castiel sound stupid.

“Shut up! She’s a lesbian, and you’re a straight guy,  _ obviously  _ you don’t have a problem with her—she’s a pretty, thin girl, and the idea of her getting off with other girls isn’t repulsive to you, as long as they’re conventionally attractive, too. But  _ me?  _ I’m a guy, and so the idea of me hooking up with another guy is disgusting for you. I know what straight boys are like, Dean! I’ve been best friends with one for like, fourteen years!”

“I’m not—!” Dean shouts, but cuts himself off, slamming his hands on the steering wheel.

“Not what?”

Dean breathes in deep, in and out, through his nose, for several moments.

“I’m not like those guys, Cas,” He says. He still holds tight onto the steering wheel, he doesn’t look at Castiel, but rather down into his lap. “I’m not like them,” He repeats. “Please don’t think I am.”

It’s this plea that tugs at the sinews of Castiel’s aching heart.

His body sighs into the seat.

“No,” Castiel says, defeatedly. “Of course you aren’t. I’m sorry for picking fights.”

Dean sniffs and starts up the engine.

“That’s fine.”    


	33. Time After Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, this one a lot more fluffy and generally happy (though, y'know, inevitably still tinged with hurt) than the last one. I'm sure you'll be glad to hear it.
> 
> I can also promise that one of the angst-ridden couple will confess his undying love in chapter 38, and the other in 39. No spoilers, lol, but it won't be simple.
> 
> I recommend reading this chapter whilst binge-listening, utterly shamelessly, to all the best love anthems of the 80s that you possibly can. Further, I'm unashamed of speaking so highly of Cyndi Lauper in this chapter and will not even consider apologising for it.

 

**Present Day**

 

Dean starts up the engine. Castiel is driven suddenly into a nervous rapture at the thought that, foolishly, he has said yes to being given a ride by someone he can hardly _bear_ to have a conversation with—let alone think of what to say to.

One of the most clearly ingrained memories in Castiel’s mind—which is odd, considering how drunk he was at the time—is the image of him smashed, hopeless, in the passenger seat of this car, having just made out with Samandriel at Charlie’s party, and wishing it was Dean he had made out with, instead. Also desperately wishing that Dean was not straight, Castiel’s thoughts seem to be continuing along a similar vein to that of the eighteen year old who fell out of Dean’s car that night and hit his head on the curb.

“So,” Dean grips at the steering wheel, apparently realising a moment after Castiel what driving him home actually _means,_ and feeling just as awkward about it as Castiel is. The writer eyes him warily, acutely aware of the fact that Dean’s mind must be working at a mile a minute, thinking up new ways of explaining to Castiel without insulting him that he knows what offering Cas a ride home in the pouring rain _looks_ like, but it’s just not like that, and Dean could never like him in that way.

Which Castiel already _knows._ So why is Dean bothering?

“Music?” Dean asks. Despite himself, and his depressive thoughts, and his sodden clothing, and the cold which gnaws at his bones, Castiel snorts.

“Sure,” He shrugs.

“Why’re you laughing?” Dean asks, but he grins. He finally begins to drive.

“I don’t know.”

And that’s the truth, although Castiel laughs with it.

“Well,” He amends. “Maybe I do know. It’s just pretty familiar—sitting in a car with you, listening to your music.”

Dean smiles.

“Maybe keep looking at the road?” Castiel suggests, raising his eyebrows at Dean, who stares at him.

“Right,” Dean snorts, returning his gaze to the road. “Don’t wanna nearly run over anyone else.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Rain patters on the roof and windshield. Aside from that, the world seems almost completely silent.

“Well, I hope you like my music more than you did nine years ago,” Dean states, and puts a mix tape into the player.

“Do people ever change that much?” Castiel asks. Dean grins, the expression loose and thoughtful, as though amused, but from a distance.

“Hm,” He answers. “Maybe not. But maybe you’d be surprised.”

The music begins to play.

“I just picked up a random tape, so I dunno what’s gonna come on. I’m not sorry.” Dean grins.

Castiel frowns at the car stereo.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, registering his expression. “You don’t like this song?”

“ _You_ do?” Castiel asks in return.

“What’s so surprising about that?” Dean replies in indignation.

“Well—” Castiel struggles for words. “You’re _you.”_

“No shit.”

“Shut up,” Castiel rolls his eyes, “you know what I mean. You like mullet rock, and not much else.”

“You always say that, Cas, but I like _loads_ of stuff.”

“Always say that?” Castiel repeats with a smile. Dean flushes and frowns briefly at Castiel, before returning his gaze to the road.

“You know what I mean.”

The writer has a feeling that he’s somewhat ruffled Dean.

“What other stuff do you like, then?” He asks, by way of changing the subject, or at least steering it away from awkwardness.

Dean shrugs, still frowning, as though this is a stupid question.

“This,” He gestures to the radio unhelpfully.

“Soul?” Castiel asks. “Rhythm and Blues?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Why’re you eye rolling me?” Castiel inquires.

“I dunno, I feel like you’re gonna take the piss.”

“I’m not,” Castiel shakes his head. “I’m just… surprised. What is it about this song?”

“That I like?”

“Yes.”

“I dunno,” Dean repeats. “I guess it reminds me of my childhood,” He admits with a laugh that rings with thinly veiled self-deprecation.

“What about your childhood?”

Dean flushes. Rain patters.

“You?” He confesses, with another self-abasing laughs. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

Something tender and sharp touches Castiel’s abraded heart.

“Oh,” The sound barely escapes his throat. “Really?”

Dean stares at the road.

“Yeah, really.”

His voice is hard and near aggressive, as though he thrusts the truth towards Castiel and wants nothing more to do with it. Castiel’s lip twitch, like they want to speak without the permission of his own brain, but nothing comes out of his mouth.

“That’s dumb,” Dean laughs suddenly, at Castiel’s silence, abashed. “Sorry…”

“Why’re you sorry?” Castiel squints. “I can… I can see why it would.” He swallows. “We really were—very close…”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. He fiddles with the steering wheel, his hands moving with the desperation of one who feels too uncomfortable to sit and do nothing.

Castiel begins to hum along to the song.

A smile cracks at Dean’s lips.

Castiel taps at the headboard with his fingers, at which Dean laughs, and begins to drum out an accompanying rhythm on the wheel.

Castiel hums louder, and Dean laughs harder, something coming untethered, it seems, inside his chest so that he rocks forward in the car, and begins to belt out the lines of the song.

_“And darlin’, darlin’ stand by me, oh stand by me,”_

Castiel cannot contain the guffaw that seizes him, and he begins to sing along, too, as Dean closes his eyes melodramatically for the final lines of the song.

“Road, Dean!” Castiel exclaims with another snort. Dean grins and opens his eyes and continues singing and laughing, glancing at Castiel and seeming really, genuinely happy.

Which in turn makes Castiel feel invulnerable.

“What a fuckin’ awesome song,” Dean beams. Castiel hardly thinks before returning the expression.

“What’s next?” Castiel asks, glancing at the car cassette player.

“No idea,” Dean shrugs. “I’ve got a lot of music. I have a feelin’ Sammy made this tape, which means—”

Cyndi Lauper’s _Time After Time_ begins. Castiel cannot contain his mirth, especially when Dean begins, with absolute sincerity, to sing along.

_“Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick, and think of you—”_

“Is this real life?” Castiel asks, giggling.

“Think so,” Dean frowns, pinching himself.

Castiel guffaws.

“It’s nice to see you laughing, Cas.”

“It’s nice to _be_ laughing.”

 _“Flashback - warm nights, almost left behind”_ Dean begins to dance as well as sing along. Castiel is near choking on his own laughter. _“Suitcase of memories, time after—”_

“Sam made this mixtape, you said?”

“That’s right,” Dean stops singing to answer. “He must’ve known it’d embarrass me, some day.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to know that it’s worked.”

Dean only beams and resumes his singing, now louder and funnier and more flamboyant and dramatic than ever.

_“If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me, time after time,”_

“You know this is like, the corniest, shittiest, _least_ you song, ever.”

 _“If you fall I will catch you—I’ll be waiting, time after time,”_ Dean grows louder, singing over Castiel and raising a middle finger to him, closing his eyes again in the feeling of the song. “Don’t say that, Cas,” He replies. “I’ll have to kick you out. Never insult Cyndi in this car, okay? This song is fucking iconic. I won’t hear a bad word against it.”

“You’d kick me out?” Castiel asks.

Dean softens.

“Maybe not in this weather,” He admits.

Castiel chuckles, but it’s quiet.

“This is nice,” He comments.

“What’s nice?”

Castiel sighs, although it makes no sound, and only translates into a loosening, relaxing of his limbs and chest.

“Sitting in the car, with you, again.”

Dean turns to stare at him again, once more quite forgetting about the road.

He smiles, eyes twitching at their corners as they regard the writer.

Then he laughs.

“God, sorry,” He shakes his head. “I can’t take anything seriously with Cyndi singing to me.”

Castiel smiles, too.

“That’s fair.”

“But it is nice,” Dean agrees. “I’m sorry—” He swallows, it looks painful. “I’m sorry we haven’t been able to… just hang out, for all this time.”

Castiel looks down at his hands.

“Yeah,” He agrees. “Me too.”

Silence.

What breaks it is more Cyndi Lauper.

Surprisingly, Dean is the first to laugh.

“I’m gonna kill Sammy,” He grins, obviously mortified.

“I’m sure you are,” Castiel agrees.

“He’ll never know how much damage he’s caused.”

Castiel chuckles.

“Oh, I’m sure he can imagine.”

“He probably gets off on it, sadistic fuck.”

Castiel can’t stop the laughter, inelegant and overstated, that marks his amusement—and joy—at his old friend’s joke, and at being able to joke with his old friend, at long last.

“Well, _I_ think she’s starting to grow on me.”

“The thing about Cyndi Lauper, Cas,” Dean says, quite sincerely, “is that she’s already grown on all of us. I think we’re born liking her. It just takes real humility and sincere artistic taste to admit that.”

“You think so?”

“I’d go so far as to say I _know_ so,” Dean nods sagely.  

_“If this world makes you crazy and you’ve taken all you can bear—”_

“Hey!” Dean exclaims. “You know the words!”

“Of course,” Castiel smiles. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“It takes a special kind of person,” Dean beams.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one,” Dean replies, sincerely.

“How _is_ Sam?” Castiel asks.

“What?” Dean frowns suddenly. All the happiness and reckless abandon has disappeared from his tone, his features. He visibly deflates, as though becoming suddenly sober.

“Sam,” Castiel repeats. “Since you mentioned him. How is he?”

Dean swallows and doesn’t answer.

“Dean?”

“Ah,” Dean waves his hand dismissively, as though he is swatting away his tears. But it doesn’t quite work, they still shimmer at the surface of his eyes. “You know Sam. He’s still Sam.”

“Well, that’s kind of the point, Dean,” Castiel reminds. “I _don’t_ really know Sam, anymore. How is he?”

Dean’s knuckles turn white as he grips at the steering wheel. His arms begin to shake.

“You really care?”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel protests, soft frown pinching at his features.

“No, I mean, do you _really_ care?” Dean asks again. “Do you really want to know?”

Castiel breathes out slowly.

“He’s not well, then,” He guesses, and it’s a statement, not a question.

Dean stares at the road, his tears filling at the bottom of his eyes.

“I don’t think I want to talk about it,” He confesses. “And not with you—not in a bad way, but I mean, that’s partly to do with it—”

These words cut at Castiel’s chest as quickly as they are spoken.

“I get it,” He looks down at his hands again.

Why should it hurt so much that Dean feels he can no longer confide in him?

“I know that you’re asking ‘cause you care, I just—”

“Dean, you don’t have to explain anything—”

“No,” Dean shakes his head quickly, “I mean—I don’t—”

“He just didn’t look well at the funeral. Didn’t look himself.”

“And he _isn’t_ well,”Dean admits. “But it’s… it’s…”

“Complicated?”

Dean nods, wincing and grimacing.

“Yeah… and more that it’s—it’s his story to tell, you know?”

“Oh,” Castiel nods. “Right. Of course.”

“Did your dad tell you… anything?”

Castiel shrugs.

“Only a little. But facts aren’t anything compared with lived experience. I want to know _how_ he is, how _you_ are.”

Dean looks away.

“Why?”

“Because I care, Dean.”

Dean looks back.

He mouths the words before he says them, lips working soundlessly over them. Castiel watches and aches, watches and wants. A useless want that, he knows, will come to no fruition. But isn’t friendship it’s own fruition? Isn’t that what Jimmy would have wanted? Castiel best friends with the boy from the house across the street, again?

“You care?”

“Of course,” Castiel answers, so earnest that his voice cracks in his throat. “Always.”

Dean looks at the road, slowing the car down. Castiel looks out the window and realises with a start, that he is back at his old house, that they have arrived.

“Well…” Dean murmurs, pulling in, killing the engine. “Thank you.”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “Thank _you._ For the lift.”

“Not dying of pneumonia is always a positive,” Dean comments with a wry smile. Castiel chuckles.

“Yes,” He agrees, “I’ve always thought so. But you’re all soaked, now—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean waves him off. “I’d uh—” He opens the door and gets out. Castiel does the same. “I’d best go see my mom. But I’ll—see you around?”  

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “Yes,” He says again, with more certainty. “I’m sure you will.”

“When do you head back to England?” Dean asks.

“Scotland,” Castiel corrects

“Scotland, then.”

The writer shrugs.

“Another month, or so. Not too long.”

Dean nods, swallowing, and looking away. His expression is both deep in thought, and lightly troubled.

“Okay,” He continues nodding. “Okay. A month. That’s good.”

“Good?”

“Not too soon.”

Castiel smiles, bewildered, at his old friend.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean repeats, still not looking at Castiel, still troubled by thought. “Cool. I’ll see you around, I guess.” He waves, and begins to make his way to his mother’s house, his old home. “Sorry for nearly killing you!” He calls over his shoulder.

Castiel laughs.

“Sorry for nearly dying on you!” He calls back. Dean’s laugh echoes into the evening air.


	34. Sink Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more sadness for you, but at least it's another piece of the puzzle. More to come tomorrow, I'm sorry this took so long!

 

The fight of the morning has dulled down into embarassed awkwardness. Now, Charlie, Dean and Castiel go to take their ordinary seats in the cafeteria, where Tamara and Isaac already sit, bickering, while Bela watches with a bemused expression. As they approach, she raises her eyebrows at the three, face filled with an affectionate levity.

“Hey, gang,” Charlie beams, setting her lunch down on the table before sitting. Dean and Castiel do the same, Castiel flushing when their hands graze each other as they set their trays down. It’s a mark of how much their relationship has deteriorated, even in a matter of days, that neither of them make a joke about it, or that Castiel’s system remains void of butterflies at the brush of his best friend’s hand against his own. All he can see, or think about, is how red Dean’s face has gone, how quickly it is the green eyed boy snatches his hand away and pulls it down to rest at his side, where it clenches and unclenches distractedly.

“Hello Charlie,” Bela smiles warmly. “Great party on Saturday.”

Charlie positively glows.

“You think so?” The redhead asks, eyes bright. Bela nods, smiling her typical winning closed-lipped smile. “Thank you! How was your weekend?”

Bela shrugs and looks away.

“I’m excited for college,” Is all she says, eyes not necessarily darkening, but a veil certainly draws itself across their surface and closes her off to any further questioning.

Tamara and Isaac continue bickering, oblivious, it would seem, to the conversation around them, or even the presence of Dean, Castiel and Charlie at the table. And quite possibly, Castiel reflects, they may not even realise that Bela is sat down next to them, and has been for upwards of five minutes.

“Tamara, Isaac, would you cut it,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I swear. You guys are worse than my parents were.”

Tamara turns to Dean, surprised by his biting tone, and widens her eyes reproachfully before greeting the three newcomers to the table.

“Hi, guys,” She nods coolly. “Sorry. Isaac and I were just talking about something—”

“What?” Charlie asks, through a mouthful of food. Castiel is reminded to start eating himself.

Tamara shakes her head.

“Doesn’t matter,” She states, but is  _ absolutely  _ giving Isaac the stink-eye, who turns to Dean and shrugs good-humouredly. Dean snorts into his pasta.

“Great party on Saturday, Charlie,” Isaac smiles at the red-headed girl, but Bela smirks again.

“Already covered that. Pick a new topic.”

“Hey, can’t I agree with you?” Isaac frowns. Then he turns back to Charlie. “And if I’m not mistaken, a couple of people at this table got  _ very  _ lucky,” He nods knowingly at Charlie, Castiel, and Dean, then points at them respectively with the plastic fork in his hand. “Am I mistaken?”

“You’re not,” Charlie glows. “And—gah, I was gonna tell you guys later, but I can’t keep it in—Dorothy and I are going on a date, on Friday! We’re gonna get cheesecake—isn’t that a cute idea?—And go vintage shopping! I don’t actually know anything about vintage shopping,” Charlie admits with a thoughtful frown, “most of what I wear is a reference to pop culture, or a hand-me-down from a male cousin—this is actually both!” She points excitedly down to her tee, which is fixed with a picture of Jim Kirk from the original Star Trek series, holding a futuristic gun—and Castiel only knows this because both Dean and Charlie have forced him to watch Star Trek on innumerable occasions. “Isn’t it cool?” Charlie beams.

“It looks lovely,” Bela nods, smiling her cool, encouraging, and possibly flirtatious smile.

“Thanks—anyway, so, I don’t know anything about vintage, and what constitutes vintage clothing, and what’s just retro, and where that line is, and—”  Charlie makes a strange, messy gesture with her hands as if to indicate her confusion, then takes another bite of food, cramming her pizza into her mouth before continuing. “Anyway, it’s all so confusing to me, but on Saturday Dorothy kept talking about how much she likes my style, and how cute and—‘nonconformist’—like, she actually used that word, you guys—how nonconformist she thought it was,  _ I  _ was! I’m not even trying to be original or nonconformist or anything, but Dorothy has the coolest style ever, even I can tell—”

“Totally,” Bela nods sincerely. “It’s  _ so  _ classy, with such an elegant masculinity. It’s enviable, really, how well she wears things.”

“Right?” Charlie beams, though Castiel suspects she has little idea of what it is Bela means by any of these compliments, and is more happy that Bela is simply complimenting Dorothy, than anything else. “And Dean thinks so too, don’t you, Dean?”

Dean smiles and takes another mouthful of food before shrugging carelessly. “I’ve said it before,” He answers, mouth full of pasta, “the chick rocks brown leather like nobody else. But Charlie, you rock Lord of the Rings paraphernalia like nobody else. I reckon you guys are a great match,” He grins, and winks.

Charlie laughs.

“Paraphernalia?” She repeats. “What does that even  _ mean?” _

“Gear, apparatus, stuff,” Dean shrugs again. 

“Big word.”

“Years of being friends with Cas, man. It gets you places.”

“Anyway, vintage shopping and cheesecake eating with Dorothy?” Bela asks. Charlie nods eagerly. “That sounds lovely. Tell us how it goes.”

“I will!” Charlie confirms with frantic excitement. “Hey—there she is, now,” She crams the rest of her pizza into her mouth, in a way that is nearly comic, nearly disgusting, but mostly admittedly adorable, and picks up her tray. “I gotta go!” She waves at the rest of the group, and then, turning and swallowing down her mouthful, nearly runs over to Dorothy to say hi.

Bela pokes around at the greenery on her plate.

“The salad options here really  _ are  _ appalling,” She sighs, shaking her head.

_ “All  _ salad options are appalling,” Dean answers, even when Tamara and Castiel pipe up in agreement. “Quit the rabbit food, start eating real crap like the rest of us,” He gestures down to his own lunch.

“‘Crap’ certainly is its deserved title,” Bela rolls her eyes, her already strong English accent growing thicker by her heated disdain for Dean’s choice of nutrition. “You know, Dean, we ought to be eating six servings of this ‘rabbit food’ a week,” She points down to the greenery on her plate, “and that’s not even counting the rest of the vegetables we should be having alongside it.”

“Oh, my God, Bela,” Dean groans, “you’re not a nutritionist. Don’t tell me how to live my life.”

Bela laughs drolly, and sighs, standing up.

“Even so, Dean,” She picks up her lunchtray carelessly, apparently having had enough of what its contents had to offer, “I’m not saying any of this to harm you. Eating well—”

“Save it for when you’re teaching health class.”

“I’ll see you all later,” Bela turns to Castiel,Tamara and Isaac, and waves elegantly with the fingers of one hand. Castiel and Tamara wave back, but already Isaac is entrenched in conversation with Dean.

“So, I hear you hooked up with Lisa Braeden on Saturday?” He asks. Dean laughs awkwardly and pointedly looks away from Castiel, nodding once and shrugging by way of confirmation. “Dude, well  _ done!”  _ Isaac grins, clapping Dean hard on the shoulder. Castiel can hardly contain his contempt for the gesture.

“Isaac,” Tamara sighs, “don’t be gross.”

“What’s gross about me congratulating my friend—”

“You’re doing it in a gross way,” Tamara answers. Isaac rolls his eyes.

_ “Anyway,”  _ He continues, emphatically, “How was it?”

“Isaac!”

“What?”

“Nah, Tamara’s right,” Dean shakes his head, “I mean, it was  _ nice,  _ but I’m not gonna go into detail just because. It’s Lisa’s story to tell too, right?”

“So there’s a  _ story?”  _ Isaac grins conspiratorially. Dean smiles, at first reluctantly, and then as though he cannot help it, just as one smiles when they’re specifically trying  _ not  _ to laugh at a joke told at an inappropriate moment.

“Oh, buddy,” Dean chuckles, “you have no idea.”

“Then  _ tell  _ it!” Isaac exclaims, clapping Dean on the shoulder once again.

Dean glances self-consciously at Castiel for a moment. Castiel bristles, glaring at him.

“Well go on,” He says, surprised by the harshness of his own tone. “Tell it.”

“Um,” Dean flushes, looking down for a moment. When he looks back up, he pointedly doesn’t look at Castiel, only at Tamara and Isaac. “Well, Meg had been annoying me at the party, talking crap about—” He cuts himself off, swallowing.

“About?” Tamara raises her eyebrows. She’s abandoned her lunch, leaning forward in interest despite her earlier protests.

“About I can’t really remember what,” Dean shrugs. “She was just teasing me, I dunno.”

Castiel squints suspiciously, Dean’s gaze flickers over to him momentarily, then away just as fast.

“So I—” Dean continues, but his face is inexplicably growing a little red, “I just thought, enough is enough, and got up and went upstairs to sit in Charlie’s room for some peace and quiet.”

“You’re not the kind of guy who likes peace and quiet,” Isaac points out, grinning. Dean presses his lips together and swallows.

“Well… I was on Saturday? Anyway—Lisa must’ve seen me going upstairs, ‘cause she followed in after me—”

“She followed you? How do you know she didn’t end up there by accident?”

“It was Charlie’s  _ bedroom,  _ Tam,” Isaac rolls his eyes. “Why else would she go there? Also,” He grins, turning back to Dean, “she’s had the hots for you for ages—you know that, right?”

“Uh, well, I guess I do now,” Dean answers, and grins wolfishly so that Isaac barks out a laugh and Tamara wrinkles her nose. Castiel stares down at his hands. His heart hurts.

“She’s  _ super  _ hot,” Isaac comments. “Like insanely.”

“You’re tellin’ me. Hottest girl in school.”

“ _ Second _ hottest,” Isaac corrects, and wraps his arm around Tamara, whose eyes widen even as she swats him away, wrinkling her nose. But when Isaac turns back to Dean, she beams into her food.

“It’s not like that even  _ matters,  _ though,” She answers. “There’s more to girls than hotness, you know.”

“Yeah, but hotness doesn’t  _ hurt.” _

Castiel is more than just surprised that it is  _ Dean  _ who made this comment.

Isaac bursts out laughing and high-fives him. Tamara swats at Isaac in furious reprimand.

“What?!”

“You’re being gross, both of you!”

“Dean,” Isaac sighs, “What happened after that?”

“Oh, so I’m sat in Charlie’s bedroom, and who should peer round the door, but _Lisa Braeden.”_ Dean glances at Castiel at this point, who continues to frown at Dean. Why is he telling the story in this way? Why is he looking so pointedly at Castiel? Iron and fire rush through Castiel’s veins: he knows why. Dean suspects that Castiel has a crush on him—and is—the _bastard,_ trying to rub it in Castiel’s face that he absolutely _doesn’t_ like Castiel back, that he’s _straight,_ by telling this story.

“Looking pretty?” Isaac asks with a grin.

“Lookin’  _ beautiful,”  _ Dean corrects.

Tamara sighs and gets up.

“I’ve heard enough. I’ll see you guys in Spanish.”

And she takes the remnants of her lunch with her.

Isaac turns back to Dean.

“So?” He presses.

“She’s wearing this—this pretty white dress,” Dean continues. “Comes in, looking so unearthly, it’s like it’s a dream, or something,” Dean begins to laugh, and so does Isaac. Castiel doesn’t. He had no idea his best friend could be such an  _ ass.  _ “And she’s all, ‘is it alright if I come in?’ Or something, obviously I’m not gonna protest, so she comes and sits down next to me. And it’s obvious what she’s come in for—even before we start talking, and we’re not exactly talking for long, it’s obvious what she’s come in for. So, I tell her she looks pretty. She’s blushing so prettily, and tells me that I look good, too, I just  _ have  _ to go for it, y’know? So I do. I lean in and kiss her. And obviously she’s not complaining. Quite the opposite.”

Dean grins cockily. Isaac smiles and shakes his head admiringly.

Castiel feels sick.

“Anything more than kissing?” Isaac asks, seriously.

“Just second base,” Dean shakes his head.

“Does it look like there’s anything more than that on the horizon?”

“Well, you tell me,” Dean grins, pulling a note out from his jeans pocket. “She gave this to me at the lockers.”

Castiel stares at the note, and the pretty, flowy handwriting the words are inked in, in a coral pen neither red nor pink.

_ Movie night at mine, on Friday? _ _   
_ _ My parents are out of town. _

“Dude,  _ nice,”  _ Isaac applauds, high-fiving Dean again. Castiel’s head starts spinning, he puts a hand over his mouth, afraid that he’s going to be sick. “What’s up, Cas?” Isaac asks with a frown, notices Castiel’s expression.

Dean peers at him with a steady frown.

“What’s the problem?” The sandy haired boy asks, and somehow his words are weighted infinitely beyond what their content would suggest.

“Castiel!”

Castiel nearly jumps out of his skin at the shout. So does Dean, by the looks of it. Isaac begins to laugh at them, and points to where the sound emitted from.

Samandriel stands, waving, about twenty yards away.

Castiel flushes immediately, face growing uncomfortably hot, skin itching. He shoves his hands in his pockets and bunches them together and refuses to look anywhere near Dean.

Castiel nods back at the brown haired boy and smiles weakly.

“Hi, Samandriel,” He half calls, half whispers back. “Are you… well?”

Samandriel laughs.

“I can’t hear you,” He mimes, and to Castiel’s utter dismay, approaches the table and sits down. “That’s better,” He beams. Castiel tries not to remember how it was this smile that made him kiss Samandriel in the first place. In his lonely haze of Saturday night, this smile had been winning and undeniably adorable; the lips that formed it had promised to chase away memories and thoughts and wishes of the person Castiel  _ really  _ wanted to be kissing; the mouth split open into a cute, shy grin had promised to taste sweeter than syrup, more intoxicating than champagne.

And, for a night, it  _ had. _

“Hey, Samandriel,” Isaac smiles, all friendliness and warmth and a reminder to Castiel to acknowledge the boy whose face he’d practically been sucking off just two days ago. “How was your weekend?”

“Good, thanks,” Samandriel returns the bright smile that Isaac has offered him, but somehow makes it even brighter. Castiel catches Dean bristling in his peripherals, and flushes harder. “How was yours?”

“Aw, just great, thanks, bro. Charlie’s was a little eventful—Tamara and I had another fight, but y’know, when  _ don’t  _ we fight?” He laughs, and so does Samandriel. “Anyway, I hear you and Cassie had a pretty good time?”

Samandriel beams, and blushes all kinds of pretty.

“Well,” He laughs a little nervously, “that’s what I kind of came over for.” He turns to Castiel.

“You need any privacy?” Isaac asks, with an knowingly affectionate smirk.

Castiel glances at him quickly, terrified.

“Oh—thank you—sure,” Samandriel confirms gratefully.

Dean is glaring down at his food.

“You heard the man,” Isaac stands. “Come on, Dean.”

Dean doesn’t move, only stares down at his food. Forget being on another planet, Dean looks as though he’s entered another galaxy.

“I said  _ come on,  _ Dean,” Isaac rolls his eyes. “Hey,” He waves in front of Dean’s face, “Hey Dean-o,” He snaps his fingers. Dean jumps and stares up at Isaac, bewildered. “Earth to Dean. Let’s move it.” Isaac picks up Dean’s tray for him. “You forgotten to take your meds today, or what? Let’s give the guys some privacy.”

Dean flushes and, saying nothing, picks up his schoolbag and drops it heavily on the table. The clatter it causes makes Castiel flinch. Dean rummages through it and, standing up, drops something harshly on the table next to Castiel.

“Before I forget,” He murmurs. “You left this at mine, two weekends ago.”

“Oh…” Castiel looks down at the object, taken aback, which turns out to be a hardback edition of the Oxford Companion to Chaucer. “Thank you—”

“Whatever,” Dean rolls his eyes—and Castiel  _ definitely  _ isn’t imagining things this time: Dean’s lip is absolutely curling, obviously in disgust.

“See ya later, Cas,” Isaac waves, obviously as confused by Dean’s actions as Castiel is, but not nearly as put-out. “Samandriel,” He nods kindly to the other boy, who returns the gesture. “C’mon, Dean,” And he grabs Dean—perhaps a little harshly—by his collar, and yanks him out of the cafeteria.

“What’s up with Dean?” Samandriel asks, obviously troubled and bewildered, staring after the green-eyed boy, who glances darkly back at Samandriel and Castiel even as Isaac drags him out of the lunch hall.

Castiel swallows, eyes burning with tears.

“Um…” He mumbles, “I don’t know.”

Well. That’s obviously a lie.

He  _ knows  _ what Dean’s problem is.

“Well, actually,” Castiel amends, “I think—I think he’s pissed off because of Saturday night. Because—because I kissed you.”

Samandriel’s face changes in an instant.

“Oh—I’m so sorry—is there—are you two—there isn’t anything between you, is there? Have I gotten in the way of something?”

Castiel fights away his blush, even as it comes, sure and infallible as the tide drawing closer on a beach.

“No,” He shakes his head, perhaps a little too emphatically. “Not at all, in fact—and there’s no chance—not that I—” He fumbles for his words. “Dean is straight, and, uh—he doesn’t seem too happy that I’m not, as well.”

“Oh,” Samandriel frowns, “I’m so sorry to hear that. That must hurt a bit, for you, huh?”

Castiel casts his eyes down as they swell with waters.

“Yeah,” He admits squeezing his fingers together.

“Anyway,” Samandriel senses Castiel’s discomfort and kindly changes the subject, “I came over to ask you a couple of things. The first—was Saturday just kind of—I don’t know, you messing around?”

“Messing around?” Castiel repeats with a squint.

“I, like, totally get it if it was—lots of people do, you know?” Samandriel asks with a laugh. “And I know, because I’ve heard you and Charlie talking about pretty girls, before, that maybe you might have just been, uh, experimenting—”

“I wasn’t just experimenting,” Castiel answers with an unsteady frown.

“Really? That’s great,” Samandriel beams. “‘Cause, a lot of guys say they’re gay, and then—”

“I’ve never said I was gay,” Castiel continues to frown. Samandriel is taken aback.

“Not…?” He trails off almost comically. “Then—what—”

Castiel sighs.

“Bi,” He answers, and Samandriel looks at him suspiciously.

“Oh—I guess a lot of people say that—”

Castiel almost feels angry, but he’s too ridden with despondency about Dean’s new found disgust for him to  _ really  _ get frustrated about how Samandriel obviously doesn’t believe in bisexuality.

“And I guess a lot of people say that because a lot of people  _ are  _ bi,” Castiel answers, just as quickly.

“Well, whatever,” Samandriel shrugs, “whatever you want to call it,” Castiel bristles, and is about to bite something out in answer to this, too, but Samandriel continues, “if you really aren’t straight, then, and not just experimenting—would you like to maybe, see what happens?”

Castiel is lost.

“What?”

“If you’re interested, I mean,” Samandriel says, quickly. “Which—maybe you’re not—but I just thought you might want to—I don’t know—”

“Are you asking me out?” Castiel frowns.

Samandriel flushes.

“Yes? Is that okay? Would you… Would you ever be interested?”

Castiel glances over to the door that Dean exited through, then down to the book that his maybe-not-so-best friend slammed down on the table, in front of him, a mere matter of minutes ago.

“I mean, why not?” Castiel asks with a laugh. “I’ve got no reason not to—and I kissed you, didn’t I? Of course I’m interested.”

Samandriel beams.

“Seriously?” He asks, and seems hardly able to contain his joy. “That’s great. That’s so great! So, like, are you free after school today? We could get ice creams, or something—I know this really cool place, they have, like, a  _ hundred  _ flavours.”

Castiel laughs, despite himself.

“That sounds nice,” He admits.

Fuck Dean. And fuck Castiel’s feelings for Dean. Why should they continue even after the green eyed boy has proven, time and time again, that he doesn’t return them?

“Great,” Samandriel grins.Then he leans minutely closer, smile fading, and resolve becoming a little more nervous than it is happy. “I, uh—I’ve had the biggest crush on you, for so long, Castiel.”

“Really?” Castiel asks, laughing disbelievingly. 

“Yeah, totally,” Samandriel confirms. “I—”

The bell goes off, interrupting him.

“Oh,” Samandriel giggles, “I guess I’d better go. What have you got, now?”

“Spanish,” Castiel answers. “What about you?”

“French. I’ll see you in math, I guess?”

“I guess so,” Castiel smiles.

“Can’t wait. Hey—was there any homework?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Cool. Cool, cool,” Samandriel beams. “Well, I’d, uh, better go—but seeing as we have math together, last thing, I guess we can just go to the lockers together, and then head out? How does that sound?”

“Sounds great.”

“Great.”

And then Samandriel totally takes Castiel by surprise by kissing his cheek.

“Seeya later,” He waves, stands, and turns on his heel, out of the lunch hall.

Castiel’s face has never been so thoroughly ablaze. He watches Samandriel’s retreating back, and, as his eyes reach the door, his stomach lurches: Isaac and Dean have appeared behind it, and judging by Dean’s darkened facial expression, have  _ absolutely  _ seen Samandriel kiss Castiel.

 


	35. On Our Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprisingly long fucking chapter ahead. I'm a. sorry it took so long, and b. living in hope that you all like it.
> 
> Also sorry for being cruddy at replying to all your comments! I've been super stressed as I'm having to move house AND go to university in the same month, so there's a lot of crap to sort out. I really love reading all your kind words, however, and just wanted to write this as a PSA before I get around to replying to you all!
> 
> Hope you enjoy the chapter :)

“We have time for a little tour around, if you’d like,” Principal Colt informs Castiel as they exit from his office. “Or maybe you’d rather wait in the staff room—?”

“A tour would be fine, thank you,” Castiel nods, hardly thinking he’d be able to stand the company of some of the people that used to teach  _ him. _

“It’s not as though you need it, of course,” Colt laughs, gesturing down the hall a little awkwardly. “You were a student here after all. But I’m sure you’d appreciate a walk down memory lane, and anyway, we’ve had a couple of renovations since you’ve been here.”

Castiel nods and smiles weakly, unsure of what to say.

“It’s very nice to be back,” He offers. “It’s kind of you to think that the students would want to hear from me—”

“Oh,” Colt laughs, almost dismissively, as they turn a corner and head toward the library, “you’ve been recieved  _ very  _ keenly. You’re a popular author, Castiel—you must know that—and what with you being an ex-student—”

“They think I’m somehow relatable?” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“Well, yes,” Colt admits with a wry smile. “Which is maybe a little foolish of them. But the fact that they can identify in you, something of themselves—well, that’s such an encouragement. You should see them. One of our English teachers has set up a writing class, and the uptake has been  _ so  _ encouraging. And you’ve certainly got something to do with that! They’ve seen that anyone can make it. You just have to work hard. Here’s the library,” He opens the door and enters after Castiel, lowering his voice to a whisper as a few students work and desks and computers. Castiel is relieved that none of them notice him enter.

“I think a lot of it is good luck, as well,” Castiel admits, speaking quietly to the principal. “I’ve been very fortunate, I’m afraid—”

“Oh,” Colt wrinkles his nose, “I don’t believe  _ that.  _ I’ve read some of your stuff—you’ve got talent, and we all saw it, even in school. Of course, the things you write about help—you’ve picked a subject that’s very popular, right now—”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks with a frown.

“A couple of decades ago, it might’ve been unthinkable, but now, fashions have turned—”

“Fashions?” Castiel repeats. “You think—you think I write about the community because it’s  _ fashionable?” _

“Obviously not,” The principal retracts, “your being gay—”

“I’m not gay,” Castiel’s frown deepens. “Would I  _ have  _ to be gay to write about loving men?”

Colt fumbles, shifting on his feet a moment.

“Of course not,” He says at last. “All I mean is—the kids care about this kind of thing. It’ll be encouraging for them to hear about it from someone who went through a lot of the things them, or their peers might be going through.”

Good save.

“Right,” Castiel nods.

“On with the tour?” Colt asks uncomfortably. Castiel shrugs.

“Go ahead.”

The step out of the library.

“Would you like to see some of the English classrooms? That is your strong suit, after all.”

“Sure.”

Castiel feels strangely indifferent.

The empty hallways are eerie, as always, in a school that Castiel remembers as being crammed and bustling—but with everybody in classes, the school feels almost like a ghost town.

But underneath the sounds of his feet rapping against the floor, and the sound of Colt’s awkward voice attempting stilted conversation, something else mingles.

Gentle music.

A guitar, played gently, in an idiosyncratically familiar way.

“Do you hear that?” Castiel asks with a frown.

He stops outside a classroom.

“The music?” Colt asks. “Well, this is the music corridor—but the rooms are soundproofed, so it must be—”

Dean.

Dean Winchester playing music to a class of teenagers with the door open, which explains why Castiel can hear it.

Castiel walks to the open doorway, breath caught in his throat. Which  _ always  _ happens when he hears Dean playing music, apparently.

“Mr Winchester still has a penchant for ignoring rules, you’ll be relieved to know,” Colt murmurs, but with a touch of affection in his voice. “The number of times I’ve had to remind him to close his door—”

Dean finishes the song. The whole class applauds, beaming, and Dean rolls his eyes good-naturedly. He doesn’t notice Castiel or the principle standing in the doorway.

“So, that was Bob Dylan,” Dean smiles to his class, sitting on his desk, “and that was my way of getting you guys excited about studying Protest Music. We’ve covered World Music, and after this, we’re gonna start on Soul, which I hope you’re all as excited about as I am. But I can’t  _ believe  _ you guys weren’t looking forward to Protest Music. You’re teenagers—aren’t you  _ supposed  _ to hate the establishment?”

The class laughs, but a girl with long dark hair tied up high rolls her eyes.

“We’re teenagers—we’re  _ indifferent  _ to everything.”

“God Krissy, let no man say teenagers aren’t edgy anymore,” Dean groans, though tolerantly. “Is that how all of you feel?” He asks the class, feigning indignant disbelief.

The class, laughing again, confirm.

“So you don’t care about  _ anything?  _ Nothing going on in the world annoys you?”

A couple of people confirm this, smirking, just to be difficult, but another few protest.

“You don’t care about oil spills? About people in sweatshops? About  _ kids  _ in sweatshops? About police brutality? About the polar bears, about climate change? About illegal foreign wars?”

“Not  _ ‘don’t care’— _ but like, what are  _ we  _ supposed to do?” A shorter boy with jet hair asks.

_ “Supposed to do?”  _ Dean repeats. “Kevin, God forbid I ever become as clever as you, and feel as helpless as you seem to.” The class bursts out laughing again. Castiel finds himself smiling at something, the familiarity with which Dean holds each member of the class, the affection with which the students regard him, the easiness of Dean’s person as he interacts with them. He’s reminded of how Dean connected with Mara, and Beth. 

Good with kids, good with teenagers—well, not good,  _ great  _ with both; beautiful—like, honestly, devastatingly pretty; funny and kind and generous to a fault—so why, after all this time, is Dean still single?

Castiel catches himself, heart dropping.

_ Is  _ Dean still single? 

“So all of you feel that way?” Dean asks.

“Yeah,” The class echoes, all laughing and beaming.

The teacher shakes his head, grinning.

“Terrible. Terrible,” He repeats, smiling at his class with exasperated affection. “Well, I’ll tell you about Protest Music, then. This seems like a pretty easy segue into it, after all. By the end of it, you’ll hopefully be as excited about it as I am—which’ll be a good thing, ‘cause you’re gonna have to write at least a thousand words on it, in two week’s time.”

The whole class groans. Castiel smiles softly.

“Mr Winchester, you’re supposed to be our  _ fun  _ teacher.”

“Fun, but not soft,” Dean counters.

“Yeah, but we  _ like  _ you—you don’t want that to change, do you?”

“Krissy, as much as your support and good opinion means to me, I’m afraid you’re still doing the essay. You getting a good musical education means more.”

Krissy sighs melodramatically.

“Alright,” Dean puts his guitar down. “Discussion time. Get your pens ready, ‘cause I want you taking notes. When do we think Protest Music started?”

“I dunno,” Krissy sits back on her chair, theatrically. “The sixties, I guess?”

“Good guess,” Dean smiles encouragingly. “Why do you think that?”

“Ugh, hippies, Woodstock, I don’t know. Isn’t it kind of obvious?”

“Anyone else?”

A boy with curly brown hair puts his hand up.

“Eddie?”

“Um—wouldn’t it have been around ever since protests first began?”

Dean positively beams.

“Awesome answer,” He nods encouragingly. “Exactly. Anyone else think that’s kind of exciting? Or am I just being nerdy?”

“Nerdy,” The whole class answers in unison, grinning at their teacher.

“Well, maybe I can persuade you otherwise,” Dean smiles. He gets up and begins writing notes on the board. “Now, it’s not just hippies that sang protest songs, Krissy—although they definitely did. But amongst others, the abolition movement, the labor movement, the women’s suffrage movement, the movement for women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights—all of them have used music to amplify their message. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg: veganism, vegetarianism, anti-war movements, anti-presidential movements—who’s heard of the band Bright Eyes?” He turns back to the class from where he stands. A couple of students raise their hands.

“Ever heard the song When the President Talks to God?” Dean asks. “That’s  _ overtly  _ political.  _ Such  _ a protest song, don’t get me started. D’you know when it was written?”

The class shake their heads, nonplussed. Castiel smiles at Dean’s somehow both sporadic and methodical teaching style.

“In O’five,” Dean answers. “So do you think Protest Music is dead?”

“Well…” A girl at the front of the class begins to answer awkwardly, “yeah, kinda?”

“Why’s that, Lena?”

“Just because there’re a few angry songs that like, happen to be political,” She begins, a little nervously, it seems, “there still isn’t a  _ movement  _ for it, anymore, you know? Like, in the sixties there was Woodstock, and so it was, like—I don’t know, a bigger thing? Protest movements were a lot more—I don’t know, a lot  _ more. _ But there isn’t that now. So there’re protest  _ songs,  _ but not Protest  _ Music.” _

Dean beams at her.

“Well, even if I don’t want that to be true,” Dean chuckles, “you argued it  _ amazingly.  _ Gold star. Very well put.”

Lena beams, persona shifting from nervous to bashful.

Castiel’s heart is tender at marking how kindly Dean coaxes each of his students out of their shells.

“So,” Dean turns back to the board, “keep that in mind, kids, because it’s a damn important point… Feminist protest songs, here are some examples: in seventeen ninety-five a song called ‘Rights of Woman’ was published in the Philadelphia Minerva, on October the seventeenth, written anonymously by ‘A Lady’.” Dean notes this down on the board, and the class in turn note it down in their books. “In nineteen ninety-three, almost a hundred years later, an indie punk band called Bikini Kill released a song called ‘Rebel Girl’, starting out, arguably, the underground ‘Riot Grrrl’ punk movement. Totally awesome. Krissy, you should look it up, it’s yor kind of thing. So, protest songs are being written about similar subjects—women’s emancipation—a century apart. Just note that down for the  _ is Protest Music dead?  _ question. But how do you think we should define a protest song?”

Several members of the class put their hands up.

“Jenna?”

“Um—so, it has to be political?”

Dean nods and turns to write the word under the title  _ What is Protest Music? _

“Good. Anything else?”

“Like, connected— _ specifically— _ with something?”

“What do you mean by specifically?” Dean asks with a smile.

“I don’t know,” The girl blushes, “maybe—if it was broader than a specific issue—it wouldn’t really be protesting anything, would it? Would it?”

“Good answer,” Dean encourages. “And specific is such an important word, actually—you’ve kinda hit the nail on the head, there, so well done. Protest Music has gotta be connected with a movement for social change—it’s gotta be protesting something, after all—and so it needs to say what it’s protesting, to be specific, Jenna, like you said. Phil Ochs, who was a protest singer—he actually preferred to be called a ‘topical singer’—who was active in the sixties and seventies, said that ‘a protest song is a song that's so specific that you cannot mistake it for BS’.” Dean writes this quote down on the board, and the class chuckle. “So specificity equals sincerity, in his mind. You were totally on the ball there, Jenna. Okay, anyone else?”

Another few students put their hands up.

“Daisy?”

A girl with short blonde hair answers.

“Like you said, it’s gotta be sincere. So it has to be significant, as well?”

“Right,” Dean nods. “But who decides what’s significant?”

“Nobody decides,” Daisy answers. “Well—events just  _ happen,  _ don’t they? And protest songs—are written about things happening, about people doing them, and saying things shouldn’t be happening that way,” She says, confidently. “So  _ politics  _ dictates what’s politically significant.”

“Nice answer,” Dean chuckles. “Kind of meta. I like it.”

“And the people that listen to it decide if it’s significant,” Daisy continues. “Maybe?”

Dean nods thoughtfully.

“Wow, yeah. That’s a good way of putting it. And so, if the listener has all that power, if politics has all that power to influence it, and if the musician has all that power to make it and protest with it, then what do we think is the purpose of music?”

The class is silent.

“Have you all gone shy?” Dean asks with a chuckle. “Or was my question too difficult?”

Castiel’s expression is almost certainly betraying the tenderness and longing he feels in this moment. Which probably  _ isn’t  _ the reason why, when scanning the faces of the members of his class, Dean’s own goes ashen when it falls on the two figures at the door.

His voice does that grating thing it did on the first day of shiva when he saw Castiel in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Um—”

The whole class turns to stare. A few of their expressions make Castiel flush: open mouths and looks of awe that Castiel feels he  _ definitely  _ doesn’t deserve. A few more of them grin and look back to Dean to mark  _ his  _ expression as he and Castiel simply… stare at each other. Several other members react in the way Castiel would prefer: look nonplussed and say nothing, or maybe whisper to each other to ask what’s going on, and who the random guy in the doorway is.

“Kids,” Principle Colt steps in, “we’re sorry to interrupt. Mr Novak here was interested in what was going on in your class.”

At this, a few of the students who were among the obviously confused number appear to work out who Castiel is.

“Oh my  _ God,”  _ The girl with dark hair—Krissy—ejects. “You’re Castiel Novak! You’re the writer guy who’s giving us that talk at lunch break!”

One of the girls, Lena, at the front of the class, doesn’t seem able to look at Castiel, but rather fiddles with her pen and looks at the floor and shifts in her seat in a restlessly nervous kind of way.

“What are you doing  _ here?”  _ One of the students asks.

Castiel laughs uncomfortably.

“Well, I used to go to this school. And I—” He gestures over to Dean. “I knew De—Mr Winchester. So when I saw him teaching—”

“You  _ knew  _ Mr Winchester?!” A boy with messy black hair turns to Dean, awestruck. “Mr Winchester, you never said you went to this school!”

“Didn’t I?” Dean asks, distracted.

“And you never said you  _ knew  _ Castiel Novak!”

Dean squirms.

“Well, none of you asked,” He frowns, looking away from Castiel quickly.

“How well did you know him? Were you guys friends?”

Dean looks up, suddenly, and over to Castiel.

His expression is surprisingly blank, but it pleads with Castiel, asks him a wordless question.

“Mr Winchester and I were great friends,” Castiel answers. He smiles softly at Dean, whose expression seeps with something, something like what Castiel saw in the Impala on the drive home in the rain, last week.

_ “Woah.” _

“Is writing hard?”

Castiel laughs.

“There’s time for questions after my talk, if you want to come to that. I think I’ve intruded on this lesson for long enough,” He says, and Dean makes ready to protest. “I believe the last question you were asked was about the purpose of music?”

Dean stares at Castiel.

“Right,” He says, his lips hardly moving around the word. He blinks, and breathes in deep, tearing his gaze away from the writer. “Right. Any of you who—” He turns back to Castiel. “I didn’t know you were giving a talk.”

“Dude,” Krissy laughs, “there’ve been posters up  _ all over  _ the school. It’s all anyone’s been talking about. Where’ve you been?”

“You should go, too!” The boy with messy hair exclaims. “It’s on at lunch—”

“Okay, Aiden,” Dean forces a laugh, “let’s get back to work.”

“We should ask the writer what he thinks!”

“Eddie, no—”

“That’s a great idea!”

“I really don’t think it is, Jay—”

“No,” Mr Colt says, “we’ve got Mr Novak here for a day, I’m sure he’d want you to get good use out of him. And after this class in lunch, so we can finish observing your lesson and then all head over to the auditorium together.”

Dean looks nervous at the word ‘observe’, face reddening and eyes widening, but to his credit, he resumes the lesson without any protestation.

“Alright—uh,” He gestures to two empty chairs at the back of the class, “go ahead and take a seat, then, both of you.” He swallows, still red, then continues. “Alright—where were we? Music, uh—”

“What’s the point of music?” One of the students helps out. “That was the last question you asked us.”

“Right,” Dean nods, smiling uneasily at the student. “Thank you, Lou. And then all of you started looking at me blankly. Is that where we left off?”

The class laughs and confirms. Dean sits nervously back down on his desk.

“Well, you’ve had some thinking time, now. Anyone have any thoughts?”

“I don’t know, Mr Winchester,” The girl, Krissy, frowns. “You’re asking us a pretty enormous question, there.”

“Right?” Dean grins, apparent glad Krissy has pointed this out. “I mean, I might as well ask you something like, ‘What’s the point of art?’ or, ‘Why do we tell stories?’. And in answering one, you’d probably succeed in answering the others—in whole or at least in part. Anyway, I ask you this because, other than the fact it’s a pretty fun existential, anthropological kinda question, you’re also all gonna be writing an essay on it next semester.” 

The whole class groans, but Dean only laughs.

“And I’ll be happy to help anyone who feels like it’s too hard, or is just struggling with it, because I get that not all of us are wordsmiths. But essay writing is an important skill to develop, if we can—and I believe each and every one of you can. And this is me offering  _ as much  _ help as you need, so don’t come in on the due date, complaining about how the topic was too difficult, or something like that. I’m expecting great work, from all of you. Now,” Dean rubs his hands together. “Can anyone think of any examples of protest singers?”

“Uh, Bob Dylan?”

“Nice answer, Rick, but it doesn’t count if I’ve performed one of his songs by way of introducing the topic.”

“Nina Simone?”

“Nina Simone!” Dean exclaims, beaming. “Exactly, Lena, what a good example. We’re gonna listen to a song of hers, later, a totally harrowing one, actually. Alright, anyone else?”

The class continues calling out suggestions—Dean writes them up on the board along with their active time periods, genre, and the issues on which they sang. Infectious, his enthusiasm bubbles over into his class, and soon Castiel is beaming at the energised interactions, as Dean appears to quite forget about the principal’s, and Castiel’s, presence in the room.

Then Dean shares more information about Protest Music, passing around handouts for the class, talking excitedly and bantering with each of the students. And then, returning to the front of the class, he turns to his students with a much more serious expression, and explains to them what it is they’re about to listen to, what it’s about, and why songs like this were, and always will be so important. Then, through the speakers at the front of the classroom, he plays Nina Simone’s  _ Strange Fruit,  _ while the students sit in silence.

“That was first written as a poem, by Abel Meeropol. Nina Simone didn’t sing the original, but she sang it outstandingly. It’s a harrowing song, and it always should be. And it’s still being covered today, and still as a Protest Song, which, I don’t know—definitely says something about racism, and how it continues now. Anyway, before we get to wrap up by playing music together, I want you to write down your homework so you don’t forget—which is to research a Protest Singer, or artist, or band. Pick out any one that you like. But tell me why you picked them. And find out all the exciting stuff about them that you can, what they protested, what kind of music they played, why they did what they did, what kind of reception they had—all of that. Okay,” Dean claps his hands together, pulling out some sheets of music from a file, “time to learn a Protest Song together. Pick up your instruments.”

The class, all grinning, begin to chatter and make their way in a confused yet determined crush to the edges of the classroom, where, Castiel realises, everything from drums to guitars to cellos to saxophones, while Dean hands out the music. Soon, everyone is singing, playing, drumming out a song by Tracy Chapman.

The bell rings, the lesson ends and the class begin to pack up their things, talking excitedly. A few of them talk to Dean, asking him questions while he patiently answers with a look in his eye as he regards each of them that honestly makes Castiel’s heart ache to see.

Whichever woman it is that ends up being lucky enough to marry Dean Winchester, Castiel hopes she wants kids. Dean seems as though he would be deprived if he were without children—and what is more, that children would be deprived without  _ him. _

“Alright, Castiel,” Mr Colt stands up, rubbing his hands together in a business-like manner as the class begin to trickle out, “I’m just going to have a word with Mr Winchester, and then I can take you to the auditorium. Are you feeling prepared? A little nervous?”

Castiel frowns and shrugs.

“I’ve sort of just been treating it as another lecture, in my head. Only the students will be younger, and I won’t be talking about Whitman or Euripides.”

Colt laughs.

“Quite right. Well, if you’ll excuse me,” And he approaches Dean, as the last of the music teacher’s students say goodbye to him. Castiel watches as Dean’s whole persona shifts, as he looks down, toeing at the ground, face flushed while the principal talks not to him, but  _ at  _ him. He recognises that look all too well, spent fourteen years watching it over and over again as the education system continually fucked Dean over for being too energetic, too impulsive, too unfocused, too creative, too outspoken. Dean is getting told off. There’s no doubt about it.

Staring as Colt says a final word, muffled by its quietness and the jabber of students outside, Castiel sees Dean hang his head when the principal turns and makes his way back over to Castiel.

“Okay, so shall we head over to the auditorium?”

Castiel’s gaze flickers back to Dean, who sits on a student’s desk, not bothering to look up.

“Actually,” Castiel begins, looking back to Colt, “if it’s alright, I think I’d prefer it if Dean could show me. It’d be good to catch up with him, anyway. Would that be alright?”

“Oh,” Colt goes a little red, and sputters a little, “of course. Yes. I’ll, um—see you there.”

He leaves stiffly, saying a single-word acknowledgement of Dean by way of goodbye to the music teacher, and Castiel turns back to the green eyed man, who has looked up.

“You, uh, got sick of Colt, huh?” Dean asks with a hollow laugh.

“About two hours ago,” Castiel answers, smirking, and makes his way over to sit on the desk opposite Dean, who for whatever reason, still looks forlorn, though moderately comforted at Castiel’s company. “But mainly I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

Dean looks unconvinced. It hurts something inside of Castiel to see.

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna be coming, today,” He comments, expression both despondent and accusatory. “Why not?”

Castiel is the one to look down, this time. He considers telling a lie, and realises that he doesn’t want to do the other man the disservice—least of all because Dean will absolutely be able to tell if he  _ is  _ lying.

“I was,” He begins, feeling the worry contort at his features, “nervous,” He admits with a sigh.

“Why were you nervous?” Dean asks, voice gentle, but his words push hard against Castiel’s resolve.

“I don’t know…” The writer shrugs—but of course, again, Dean is unconvinced.

“Things still feel that weird between us, huh?” He asks.

Castiel is surprised by the frankness of his once-best friend’s words. He peers, hard, at Dean for a moment.

“Maybe,” He admits. “But I don’t want them to be.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks. “Me neither.”

Castiel watches as Dean toes at the ground, arms folded as though expecting an attack, but too shy to actually defend himself.

“So Colt really told you off just now, huh?” He asks. To his surprise, Dean snorts.

“Yeah,” He nods, then rolls his eyes.  _ “Totally,”  _ He amends. “My ass was grass.”

Castiel chuckles.

“Really? What was he even pissed about?”

Dean rises up off the desk.

“I’m takin’ you to the auditorium, right?” He asks.

Castiel frowns.

“Yes…” He confirms.

“Then we’d best get goin’.” Dean begins to walk towards the door.

“Right…” Castiel mumbles, following after him, more than a little confused.

“Colt was pissed,” Dean rolls his eyes, suddenly continuing as they make their way out onto the hall, “because apparently I was tryin’ to  _ radicalise  _ the kids.”

Castiel barks out a laugh, but Dean’s expression remains heavy and sincere.

“Wait, seriously?” The writer asks in disbelief. “What was it about your lesson that he took issue with. What could he  _ possibly  _ have taken issue with?”

Dean scowls.

“Saying the world still needs changing, saying racism still exists, I don’t know,” Dean sighs. “The guy’s a square, always has been. I mean, we’re meant to be  _ educating  _ kids, right? What the hell am I doing, if I’m not showing them the world is cruddy, that art can change it, that  _ they  _ can change it. But nah, saying that things aren’t perfect, saying that corruption exists, saying that the world needs changing, that’s  _ radicalising  _ kids. What the hell?!” Dean raises his arms in exasperation. “And me implying that art is a way of changin’ shit, changin’ opinions—me saying to my students that their thoughts and words are powerful, that they  _ matter _ —that’s me ‘setting up deliberately antagonistic points of view in children’.”

“Colt said that?”

“He’s a fuckin’ McCarthyist,” Dean grumbles, glaring at the ground.

“Well,” Castiel says softly as Dean leads him down a flight of stairs, “I thought it was an amazing lesson.”

Dean looks at him, hard and unconvinced, pretty, dark lips pressed into a thin and cynical line.

“Ha.”

“I mean it,” Castiel protests, frowning. Dean quickens his pace, and Castiel has to do the same to keep up. “It was great. It was so great to see—and I’m glad I got to see it. Your students—they really love you. You know that, right?”

Dean looks up at Castiel, obviously touched, but a wall of skepticism and humour goes up around his features in an instant.  

“Ah,” He wrinkles his nose and waves his hand dismissively, “two years into college, they’ll have forgotten me.”

“You really think that little of them?”

“Not that little of  _ them…” _

Castiel stops.

“Dean,” He peers at his old friend, “is it really that difficult for you to believe?”

Dean averts his gaze, shrugging.

“C’mon,” He kicks at the ground, walking again, “we don’t wanna be late.”

“You know you don’t have to come see me speak if you don’t want to,” Castiel points out. “I don’t know how busy your schedule is, and you’ve only just found out about it, and maybe you already had plans—”

“You don’t want me there?”

Castiel actually laughs.

“Quite the opposite, actually, Dean,” He answers honestly. “You think I wouldn’t want a friendly face in there? When I’m talking to students years younger than what I’m used to, about how I got where I am, which even  _ I  _ don’t know—”

“You worked hard,” Dean points out. “That’s how you got here.”

“Actually, I got a weird call from my old principal asking me to come do a talk at my old school,” Castiel corrects.  _ “That’s  _ how I got here.”

Dean barks out a laugh and manages to look suddenly far less serious.

“You know,” He says, voice cracking, “you called me your friend, back there. In class. In front of everyone.”

“Did I?” Castiel asks, bewildered by how touched Dean seems to be by this. “Well—why are you surprised?”

Dean shrugs, smiling loosely, and looks away.

“I guess I just thought you wouldn’t consider me that, anymore…”

“And why wouldn’t I?”

Dean looks back at Castiel, serious again.

“I think you know why not.” They’ve reached the door of the auditorium. Dean stops outside of it. “So,” He starts, a little withdrawn, but still frank as ever, “you want me in there, or not?”

Castiel half-laughs, but it comes out strange and strangled.

“Of course I want you in there, Dean,” He answers. “Do  _ you  _ want to be in there?”

Dean smiles softly.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Castiel beams, heart raw and tender.

“Really?” He asks, voice cracking with disbelief.

“Of course,” Dean laughs, “who else is gonna be willing to heckle you, otherwise?”

“You’re going to heckle?” Castiel asks, grinning.

“Duh,” Dean says, putting on his traditional  _ shouldn’t-this-be-obvious  _ voice. “Gotta keep you humble, Cas.”

“Don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“Ugh,” Dean rolls his eyes comically, “don’t get me started.”

He opens the door. Castiel walks in, suddenly nervous, which Dean apparently senses, because in the next instant, there is a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” A voice, rough and sweet and beautiful and steeped in southern sugar, sounds in his ear, “you’ve got this.”

Castiel, the lumbering idiot that he is, stops short at the touch.

Is this?—It must be—the first time he and Dean have touched—have  _ actually  _ touched—in nine years.

It steals the writer’s breath.

Dean realises the same thing, it would seem, because his hand slides quickly away, ripped off, leaving Castiel’s skin cold and curiously lonely.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. Colt has seen Castiel entering, and has made his way over, clapping the writer on the arm.

“Just look at this turnout!” He beams emphatically, gesturing behind him to the rows upon rows of students. Castiel’s stomach lurches. “Isn’t it so exciting!”

“Um…”

Castiel definitely wouldn’t say so.

“I’ll go up and introduce you—are you feeling ready? Of course you are, what a stupid question!”

And Colt goes up to the stage.  Castiel looks down.

“You’re scared?” Dean asks softly, at Castiel’s side. The sound of Colt settling down the students and talking about what an exciting day this is glimmers faintly in Castiel’s ears. He nods distantly, hardly able to lift his head up to look at Dean. But he’s glad when he does. Jade eyes with flecks of gold, warm, so warm, like a forest on fire, and kinder than anything Castiel has seen before. “That’s okay,” Dean says gently, hand on Castiel’s arm.

Castiel doesn’t think before he is covering Dean’s hand with his own.

Dean stares at it for a moment.

“Remember—remember our first day of kindergarten? When you were so scared, and staying outside, and me being me, I didn’t even realise?”

Castiel laughs, but it sounds strange and childish in his ears, and nods.

“Well… If it helps, I’ll be here—like I was then, when I was smart enough to realise how you felt, how scared you were. If it helps, just look at me, when you’re up there. You’ll ace it, obviously Cas, because it’s you doing this, and they’ll love you. But if you feel nervous, look at me.” Dean smiles softly, and lowers is voice even further. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

Castiel doesn’t think before pulling Dean in for a hug.

The first hug of nine years.

“Thank you…” He mumbles. Dean squeezes awkwardly, chuckling, and pats Castiel encouragingly on the back.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome.” He pulls apart, stepping away just as Colt says Castiel’s name, inviting him up to the stage. “Break a leg,” Dean grins encouragingly, and Castiel offers a faltering, nervous smile back.

“I’d really rather not,” He replies honestly, to which Dean chuckles warmly, shaking his head. Castiel turns and makes his way onto the stage. When he’s up at the microphone, he realises the kids have been clapping him. Dozens of them are waving copies of his books in the air. There’s shouting and whooping. Castiel glances at Dean, heart soaring with fear and now, it seems, disbelief, and sees him taking a seat at the front row, reserved for teachers, clapping and grinning with the rest.

The world is a little short for air.

Looking at Dean, who is still beaming, doesn’t exactly help this.

But actually, Castiel thinks, doing this—and doing it well—means more to him, because Dean is here. He wants to speak well, because these are the kids that Dean cares about, and foolishly, in a ridiculous teenage aspirational kind of way, he wants to do it well, because he wants to impress Dean.

“So, um,” He swallows, suddenly more nervous than comforted by Dean’s presence, and rummages in his pockets for his notes. “So,” He says again, looking up at the eyes of his audience. Some vacant, some amused, some bewildered, some, he notes, flushing, starstruck.

“So when your principal posed this whole,” He gestures, to all of them, “talk, thing, to me, he said it would be encouraging for you all to hear a success story.” He swallows again, and finds himself laughing, in spite—or perhaps because of—the heart hammering away frantically inside his chest. “I don’t know if many of you even know who I am, or even care—maybe some of you came for extra credit in English, I don’t know—” A few students laugh, and Castiel remembers to actually look up from his notes. In meeting the gaze of his audience, all expectant, and certainly none of them willing him to fail, Castiel slips his notes back into his pockets.

Well. Things are always better improvised, anyway. At least when Castiel does them.

“Maybe a few of you came along because you heard the word ‘writer’, and thought maybe I was going to give you all a step by step recipe for success. If that’s the case, then I’m sorry—I don’t know if I’d even count my story as a ‘success story’, or any of what I’ve done as particularly ‘successful’...” Castiel trails off and looks around at the crowd, who are definitely now all looking at him with bewilderment. A few teachers, including Colt, cough awkwardly. But Castiel only has eyes for Dean, now. Dean, who frowns softly and peers steadily at Castiel, as though genuinely invested in what the writer has to say, next.

“What I do know,” Castiel continues, voice wavering for only half a syllable, “is that I love what I do. Like most of you, I’m sure, I’ve been writing stories since I was—well, since I was half-literate,” Castiel laughs, and nearly jumps in surprise when the students do, too.  _ Okay, this is just like a lecture,  _ the writer reminds himself,  _ these kids just want to laugh, get through it, and maybe learn something.  _ “And I know that when I was six years old, and scrawling words into my notebook with my dad peering encouragingly over my shoulder—” Castiel’s voice actually breaks of here, to his surprise and embarrassment, at the mention of his father even in such an innocent light, and he has to look down. When he looks up, again, there are a pair of green and gold eyes glued to him that refuse to so much as blink. The writer, surprised by his own actions yet again, smiles. “When I was writing stories at six,” He continues, taking a steadying breath, “I wasn’t thinking about how much money I would make, how successful I would be, how many people would know my name.

“The reason I don’t count my story as a success story is just that—what does it even matter? And what is success? To six year old me, I’m sure writing three novels and publishing a couple of essay collections would be the biggest success story ever.” Castiel laughs suddenly, and amends himself, “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have really cared about the essays,” He admits, and the students laugh again. “But my point—the value isn’t in how the art is received. The value is  _ in  _ the art. I think we live in a culture, honestly, that stifles creativity and frown upon creative types, unless their creativity can be used for profit. I think that’s terrible, truly. So don’t— _ please,  _ don’t—aspire to be a writer, a painter, whatever, because you want everyone to know your name. Most days, I don’t even know  _ my  _ name—” Another laugh from the audience, and this one a bark, loud and unexpected. “You’ve probably heard it be said that Van Gogh only sold one painting in his lifetime, and maybe that fact has lost its impact, by now. But the extension of that fact is that Van Gogh painted because he  _ loved  _ it. He wanted to be better at it, and he laboured hours upon hours to be better at the thing that he loved, at the thing that he cared about. For me,  _ that’s  _ the inspiring thing about Van Gogh. Do things because you love them, and work hard at them—because life is less a measure of the money you make and more a measure of the good that you leave.

“Or, to pick a less well-known example—Tolkien didn’t want to publish his books. Can you believe that? He wrote—and wrote amazingly—literal Epic novels, and clearly for no reason to do with wealth, or fame, or praise. He wrote languages, he made maps, his house was apparently filled with little scraps of paper with notes on about a series that all of us know the name of—even if we haven't read it. I can’t give you an inspirational talk today, insofar as ‘inspirational’ means aspirational, means me telling you that if you write a book, carve a sculpture, it  _ will  _ sell, you  _ will  _ be successful. But do it anyway. The world needs art, and art can’t be made for profit. I don’t mean that at all in the sense that we shouldn’t pay for art, or support artists: but there have been poets and painters and filmmakers who have made things for money, and something raw in the soul of their work is lost. The audience can tell. I mean, they’re making a movie about  _ emojis,  _ you know?!” The students burst out laughing again, and again, Castiel’s confidence grows.

“When you hear stories about actors or poets or singers who made it big, what you’re hearing are survivor’s stories. I know that’s a bummer and I’m sorry. But you have it in you—all of you—to change that. To make it so that anybody  _ can  _ succeed, and anyone can afford to try. So do what you love, do what you care about, that’s the only advice I can sincerely give. Work hard at what you do—but not for fame or success: work hard because looking at the world right now, it  _ needs  _ something better. It needs your art, or your counselling, or your doctoring, or your mothering. I didn’t plan to get here—life doesn’t really happen that way. At least not to me. I absolutely didn’t plan to be standing in front of my old school having to give a speech about how to achieve your dreams,”  Another laugh, “and to be fair, I’m not even giving one. But I  _ did  _ work hard, I did stay resilient—I did rely on friends and family when I felt like giving up—and that’s not even necessarily giving up on becoming a writer, sometimes even university, the grind of everyday life and constant essays, made me feel like dropping everything and running away. But don’t do that. 

“Work on your talents, work on your passions, even if it’s alongside day jobs and office work and looking after your family.  _ Especially  _ if it’s alongside those things—because just as much as your creativity is of benefit to the world, it’s of benefit to you, too. I think I’d be dead if I weren’t writing. That’s not a joke. So, my inspiring message isn’t really very inspiring, it doesn’t tell of the triumph of the human spirit because I hardly feel that my spirit triumphed: if anything, I got to where I am today because of the love and support of the people around me, and the love that I feel sitting alone in my room hammering words into a laptop keyboard at three in the morning.” Another laugh. “Measure your prosperity by the hearts you’ve touched, the love you feel, the improvements you’ve made. Because life is  _ long,  _ and grating, and we need generous people more than we need rich people. We need the kind and the insightful and the nurturing and the funny, way more than we need the famous. Take it from me.”

Castiel stops, and coughs. 

“That’s about it,” He says, suddenly remembering himself and his awkwardness. “Thanks for, uh, listening to me ramble. I hope it was… uplifting…”

The students all burst into fits of laughter, again, and begin to clap. Then whoop. Then stand up and laugh and clap and whoop. Castiel, flushing, and certain his little rant didn’t deserve this reception, quickly steps down from the stage just as Colt gets up to inform everyone that Castiel will be signing books, outside, and that anybody who wants to buy a copy or have theirs signed should begin to queue, now.

Castiel makes his way over to the corner of the auditorium, head spinning.

He doesn’t notice Dean until the teacher is stood right next to him.

“Dude,” Dean is beaming, slow clapping perhaps a little theatrically, “that was awesome.”

Castiel swallows and shakes himself back into reality.

“That’s… charitable of you…”

“I’m not kidding,” Dean shakes his head, hand slipping back onto Castiel’s shoulder like it belongs there, like it’s  _ always  _ belonged there.

Which, in is heart of hearts, Castiel cannot but help feeling that it  _ has. _

But no, he berates himself, Dean is straight. Dean is  _ straight.  _ Stop being a creep.

“Well, thank you,” Castiel murmurs, unconvinced. “You really think it was any good?”

“I really do,” Dean replies, earnestly. He squeezes Castiel’s shoulder, the touch, after nine years bitter deprivation of it, burns like coming home from the cold. “Although,” He chuckles, shrugging humorously, “it looks like  _ both  _ of us might be gettin’ berated by the principal, for tryin’ to radicalise students today.”

Castiel frowns, suddenly worried.

“It looked like I was trying to radicalise them?” He asks, suddenly worried. “I only wanted—I don’t know—”

“Listen, telling teenagers not to live for money is  _ exactly  _ the right thing to do,” Dean reassures. “To be fair, most of them know it, already, and know how fucked up the world is for having the economy as its, like, absolute priority.”

“I only wanted to tell them to do what they loved…”

“And that's the right thing to do!” Dean exclaims, quickly. “I guess you  _ did  _ come across a little privileged, though,” He concedes. “Y’know. Not everyone can afford to pursue their dreams just because they  _ love  _ them. And money  _ does  _ matter, in that it buys us food, and water, and warmth—”

“You’re right,” Castiel groans.

“But it was great,” Dean reassures quickly. “Like, I’m so glad you said what you did, and not some other bullshit about—I dunno, just believing in yourself. Who actually believes in themselves?” Dean asks, laughing. “Anyway, you said what you meant. What you believed in. And the kids could sense that.  _ I  _ could sense that.”

“And that sort of thing—sincerity—matters?” Castiel asks. Dean, unblinkingly, stares back at him.

“Absolutely.”

Silence.

Staring. Earnest staring.

“Castiel!” Colt bustles over, “are you ready to sign books?”

The writer blinks.

“Oh—right—yes, of course.”

“Excellent.”

And Castiel is led by the elbow through a bustling crowd of students to the other side of the auditorium, where suddenly, a table and chair have been set up for Castiel to sit at. The line of students stretches outside, to where copies of Castiel’s books are being sold. Castiel stares blankly at all of this, and is unspeakably grateful when Dean appears at his side again.

“Did you know you were gonna be doing book signings?” Dean asks with a smirk. Castiel sighs through his nose and rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

“No,” He admits, to which Dean snorts comically.

“Well, it’s sounds like another day in the life. You do many book-signings?”

“I try to avoid them,” Castiel replies honestly, to which Dean laughs.

“Of course you do.”

“Don’t mock me,” The writer frowns.

“I wasn’t,” Dean shakes his head. “It was affectionate.”

Castiel takes his seat and the pen Colt offers him.

“I, uh, left my copies of your stuff at home,” Dean confesses, still by the writer’s side. “I hope you don’t mind. Maybe you could sign them another time?”

“Stop messing around, Dean,” Castiel rolls his eyes, but he smiles affectionately. Then he looks up at Dean. “You actually have copies?” He asks, disbelieving. “Of my books?”

Dean stares seriously, and perhaps a little hurt, at Castiel.

“Of course I do, Cas.”

But nothing more is given the chance to be said, because the first student has been ushered forward, book in hand, to get a signature and a few words with Castiel.

And Dean slips quietly away into the crowd.

Not that Castiel watches him go, or anything.


	36. Simple Explanation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, they're still being so frustrating, and I'm so sorry.

**(Monday, April 9th, 2007)**

**(Dean and Cas are 18)**

 

It’s the first time since lunch that Castiel and Dean have been alone together, walking from Spanish class to math. Dean holds tight onto one of the straps of his backpack, looking down, obviously too self-conscious to be fully present in the world, even as people on the corridor greet him.

Silence.

Then Dean looks up.

“So Samandriel seems… nice?”

Castiel frowns, gazing into Dean’s face, which is pulling an odd expression. His tone, attempting to be lighthearted and conversational, is exactly the opposite, and Castiel is sure Dean has realised this, because the green eyed-boy flushes suddenly and looks away.

“Well, I think he is,” He confirms, walking a little quicker,  _ really  _ not wanting to have this conversation.

“Is that—is that why you—y’know?”

Castiel stops short and turns to face Dean.

“What?” He asks, scornfully.

“Don’t bite my head off, Cas—I’m just, I dunno, asking what you see in him,” Dean mumbles, somehow both defensive and accusatory.

Castiel shakes his head.

“What, because he’s a boy, and it’s so ridiculous that I could like one of  _ those?” _

“No,” Dean shakes his head quickly, frowning. People push past them, sighing pointedly, as the pair stand stock-still in the middle of the hall. “Can you stop twisting my words so that it sounds like I’m—I don’t know, some massive bigot?!”

“There’s not much that I need to twist to be honest, Dean,” Castiel retorts. “You think I  _ want  _ my best friend to hate me because of my sexuality?”

“I don’t—!” Dean nearly shouts, then cuts himself off, body jerking as he clenches his fists to regain self control. He looks down, pressing his lips together so tight that they are almost invisible. His face is heated, so that his freckles, which Castiel once used to spend all his time examining while he and Dean spoke, laughed together, have disappeared. Dean squeezes his right fist hard, drawing a long breath in, then releases. “I’m only trying to take an interest in you,” Dean looks up at Castiel. His voice comes out charred.

“Well, I’m sorry that I can’t be as interesting as Lisa,” Castiel rolls his eyes, turning on his foot and beginning down the corridor again.

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean growls frustratedly, following after him, “you  _ know  _ I didn’t mean it like that.”

“So I’m supposed to be grateful that my  _ best friend  _ is taking an interest in the person I’m dating?!”

It’s Dean who stops short, this time.

“You’re… dating?” He asks, expression blank, eyes wide. “Already?”

Castiel sighs.

“Well, no,” He admits. Dean’s shoulders slump with relief, and damn it, Castiel  _ knew  _ Dean had a problem with him dating guys. “But we  _ are  _ going on a date, after school, today. So don’t look so relieved at me not being gay, or whatever—”

“I—” Dean glares, but cuts himself off. “A date?” He repeats. “Doing what?”

“Samandriel wants to get ice cream,” Castiel shrugs. “Why does it matter?”

“We were—I thought we were gonna go to the treehouse together? Do our homework then stay out with a couple of beers?”

Castiel shakes his head, begins walking again.

“I’m sorry,” He answers, sincerely, “I guess I must’ve forgot.”

_ “Forgot?”  _ Dean repeats, glaring.

“Well, yes—aren’t people allowed to do that?”

Dean scowls as if ready to say  _ no, no they’re not,  _ but instead he bites out,

“Well, it’s whatever. It’s just a dumb treehouse, anyway. And hanging out with you isn’t even a big deal. We do it kind of a lot, it’s embarrassing, really.”

“Why’s it embarrassing?” Castiel asks, mortified by how his voice cracks in his throat as he asks this.

“You won’t be wanting a ride home, I guess?” Dean asks, instead of answering Castiel’s question.

“We’ll be heading into town, so no thank you…” Castiel answers uneasily, swallowing. “I’ll get a bus home…”

“Unless you go home with Samandriel.”

“Why would I do  _ that,  _ Dean?!”

“You’ve already made out, grinded up on each other in front of everyone,” Dean points out, “won’t a date be kinda boring?”

“You’re a dick, Dean,” Castiel shakes his head slowly, glaring.  _ “Fuck  _ you.”

Dean looks suddenly remorseful, as though he has, this instant, realised what he’s said.

“No, Cas, I’m sorry—”

_ “Fuck  _ you,” Castiel repeats, spitting the words out. They’ve reached their math class. Castiel storms inside, ignoring Dean’s protests and attempts of apology.

He doesn’t take his usual seat, next to Dean’s place. Instead, upon the insistent waving of Samandriel, he sits next to the brown haired boy, instead, and doesn’t look at Dean all class.

He doesn’t think he’ll see Dean for the rest of the day, so he’s surprised when, on arriving home after his date with Samandriel, Dean is sat on the top of Castiel’s front porch steps, waiting for him.

“Hey, stranger,” Dean smiles, eyes sad, looking relieved as Castiel makes his way up the path.

Castiel frowns, swallowing nervously.

“Hello, Dean.”

The green eyed boy looks prettier than ever, now that Castiel knows for certain that Dean will never love him back: amber sunlight of the early evening sails down from above to the earth and washes Castiel’s white house in a brilliant shade of orange, Dean’s hair lighter, his freckles more pronounced, his skin swimming in gold, his eyes a fire of green and glittering yellow.

Castiel can’t breathe, wants to cry, berates himself for being a teenager so hopelessly and embarrassingly in love with a boy who couldn’t possibly entertain the  _ idea  _ of returning those feelings.

“So,” Dean grins awkwardly, expression undeniably fake, as he gets up and makes his way down the steps to meet Castiel along the path, “how, uh, how was it?”

Castiel still feels a little too heartbroken and hurt to be able to spend any time with Dean.

“Good,” He says, walking past Dean and up toward his house. Dean follows after him.

“Just good?” He asks. “Not—”

“I didn’t realise you even cared, Dean,” Castiel’s interruption is very nearly a snarl, and Dean flinches back at it.

“Cas…” He begins, obviously both hurt and unsure of where this sentence is going, “of course I care—I’m sorry for bein’ an ass back there—”

Castiel has climbed the porch steps and made his way to the front door.

“Cas,” Dean grabs a hold of the other boy’s shoulder. “Please don’t be mad at me. I keep—I kept saying shit today that I didn’t think about, ‘cause I haven’t been taking my meds, but I really, really—” Dean cuts himself off and swallows, “I didn’t ever want to say anything to hurt you.” His hand slips off Castiel’s shoulder and Dean stuffs it into his pocket, fiddling there nervously. “I, uh—obviously, coming out is massive and terrifying and I think you’re the bravest kid around, for doing it. I—” He cuts himself off again, looking down. “I really respect you for it. And I don’t care that you’re not straight. I—really. Can you please believe me? I know I haven’t—” Dean bristles, flushing, “I know I haven’t given you much reason to trust me, and that I’ve been actin’ weird, but… Can you trust me?” Dean asks, and peers earnestly into Castiel’s eyes, so hard that the dark haired boy itches to look away, where ordinarily he takes no issue with staring back at Dean. 

“I love you,” Dean says, in such a tone that it breaks Castiel’s heart. “I love you,” Dean repeats, and stares hard at Castiel, eyes glittering with tears. “Do you hear me? You’re my best friend. I love you. You hear me? Do you get it?”

“And I love you…” Castiel replies, looking down. And he means it, though Dean couldn’t possibly comprehend quite how much. “And you’re  _ my  _ best friend.” He looks back up at Dean, who looks strangely disappointed. “Please let’s never fight again?”

Dean swallows a moment, as though it is painful, and nods stiffly.

“Of course,” He cracks a weak smile. “Never.” He opens his arms, “Hug it out?” He asks. Castiel laughs pitifully.

“Sure,” He nods, tugging Dean close. He can’t help but inhale the scent of soap on Dean’s skin, of old and beaten leather, the strangely metallic tang that probably means he’s been working on his car. He pulls away, chest aching.

“But seriously,” Dean starts, “how was it? I wanna know. My best friend’s first date,” He laughs. “Tell me all about it.”

“Come inside, Dean,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Are you free for dinner? You want to have it here?”

“You think I’m gonna turn down free food?” Dean asks with a grin as Castiel finally steps inside.

“Remind me to tell Lisa that the way to your heart is through your stomach.”

Dean barks out a laugh.

“You know me too well, Cas.”

But something in his eyes even as he smiles sings sadness to Castiel.

 

…

 

It was only natural that Cas should take Samandriel to prom.

It’s  _ less  _ natural that he should insist on spending so much time with Dean, when there, but then Dean seems pretty set on spending so much time with  _ him.  _ Two months into Castiel dating Samandriel, and Dean dating Lisa, all the awkwardness between Dean and Castiel has died down and been forgotten, and Castiel has made peace with the fact that Dean will never love him back.

Sort of.

Admittedly, there are some nights, still, when lying awake and staring up at the ceiling, Castiel will imagine that the arms lying across his chest belong to someone other than his boyfriend. Sometimes, when running his hands smoothly through Samandriel’s hair, the other boy humming contentedly as they watch TV, or read, Castiel will imagine that the tufts between his fingers are sandy instead of chestnut. Some days, when he kisses Samandriel goodbye and grazes his thumbs across his boyfriend’s cheekbones, he’ll picture golden freckles where there is only creamy skin.

But that’s it, nothing more. Castiel is happy with Samandriel, the kind of happy he has always noted in bored-but-contented married couples, of something pleasant enough to warrant sticking to, and banal enough not to drive either party insane—except Samandriel has no idea the dark haired boy feels this way. On surface level, everything is fine: they get along, they can spend enormous amounts of time together without one getting sick of the other, they’re both quiet and reflective, Samandriel is the cheerful to Castiel’s grumpy…

The problem?

Castiel is in love with his best friend.

Two months of Dean and Castiel dating different people, two months of double dates with Dean and Lisa, two months of sitting together in the cafeteria, two months of Castiel’s heart breaking every time Dean takes Lisa’s hand in his own, kisses it, kisses her on the cheek, messes up her hair…

Every time Castiel sees Dean interact with Lisa, he’s forced to acknowledge what a good boyfriend Dean is. And every time  _ Castiel  _ interacts with Dean, which is inevitably even more than he interacts with even Samandriel, he is forced to acknowledge what a good friend the green-eyed boy is, and how much Castiel would give to never be parted from him.

But prom.

Jimmy let Castiel use his car to pick up Samandriel. Naturally, Dean took Lisa in the Impala. But when there, something happens: amidst all their friends dancing together and not really taking anything seriously, Dean grins and pulls Castiel aside to speak with him.

“Dude,” He beams, “come with me. I’ve snuck some rum in. It’s in the boy’s bathroom.”

“You’re not gonna share it?”

“I’m sharin’ it with  _ you.  _ What do you think I am, a fuckin’ philanthropist? If people wanted to drink they should’ve brought their own. Except you,” Dean’s hand tightens around Castiel’s wrist. “Except you,” He repeats.

Horrendously reckless. That’s what it is, all that it is. But also hilarious, doing shots with no chaser and laughing giddily about it in the cruddy school bathroom with his best friend, coming back into the hall with breath on fire and teachers eyeing both of them a little suspiciously, Dean kissing Lisa hard, Castiel doing the same with Samandriel.

And so, ending up pulled over on the side of the road with Samandriel straddling his lap, kissing passionately, hardly seems too ridiculous a progression of the night.

What happens next, kind of is.

And it only happens because, a little drunk and very irresponsible, hazy and happy and very very sad, Castiel is imagining that it is Dean grinding his ass down on Cas’s junk,  _ Dean  _ kissing his lips so deep and sweet that Castiel can feel it in his toes,  _ Dean  _ running his hands through Castiel’s hair and over Castiel’s shoulders and Castiel’s neck, over and over and over in a glorious infinity of sugary, hungry pleasure.

Dean.

Dean.

_ Dean. _

“I love you,” The words are breathed out into the inch of air that lies between Castiel’s mouth and the boy on his lap’s.

A moan escapes Castiel’s lips at the confession: drunk and giddy he has thoughts only of jade eyes and sandy hair and constellations of freckles spattered across cheeks, of the feeling of friction as the boy in his lap continues to grind into him, of downing shots in the bathroom with his best friend and how, more than anything, Castiel loves Dean, too.

“I love you, too,” Castiel groans out, fingers slipping down into Dean’s pants.

Wait.

No.

Not Dean.

Castiel’s eyes burst open.

Samandriel.

Samandriel beaming down at Castiel, whose fingers of his right hand are still tightly knotted in the brown tufts of Samandriel’s hair, Castiel’s other hand at the small of the other boys back, fingers pressing at his ass.

_ Samandriel. _

“You do?” Samandriel asks, with a beam. Castiel goes a deep, dark red. Samandriel laughs, grazing his thumb against Castiel’s heated cheeks. “Really?”

Oh, shit.

Well, Castiel can’t exactly tell the truth, now.

_ No, actually, I was just thinking about my best friend and got a little carried away. I love him more than anything. You’re great too, and this was fun, but you’re not exactly Dean, are you? _

Castiel laughs nervously, unable to either confirm or deny.

“I didn’t even mean to say it,” Samandriel beams, “it just kinda came out!”

“Ah-hah,” Castiel half laughs, half hums, “same here, honestly…”

Well, at least  _ that’s  _ the truth.

“That’s so funny,” Samandriel continues, radiantly. “How typical of us! Never saying what we mean until we don’t mean to.”

Castiel huffs at the inadvertent aptness of Samandriel’s words.

“Yeah…” Castiel mumbles. He tips his head forward so that it rests on Samandriel’s shoulder, unable to look the boy in the eye. “What a classic.”

“I’ve had such a great night, Castiel…” Samandriel murmurs, and begins to trace a line down the nape of Castiel’s neck with one of his fingers.

“Yeah…” Castiel replies, voice nearly a whisper. “…Me to,” He answers. And he means it, though he’s sorry for it, but only because he is thinking of messing around with Dean, of laughing about their classmates together, of sneaking down the corridors and doing shots while Dean told outrageous jokes. Only because of Dean.

It’s all only because of Dean.


	37. Never Supposed to Leave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, shit, man, the ball's really rolling, now.
> 
> For any of you wondering I've just started at Cambridge and am DEAD to the world. Fresher's week is carnage and my reading list is so immense. I'm still trying to write regularly but updates won't be so constant, I'm afraid!
> 
> Also, this chapter is really fucking long. I hope you enjoy :)

 

“So that pretty much leaves it as yours, Castiel,” Gabriel says, turning to face his brother.

Castiel nearly jumps back to his senses, shaking himself and looking up to meet Gabriel’s gaze.

“What?” He asks, blinking. He hasn’t been sleeping well, caught in a stir of grief and confusion at the loss of his father, grief renewed at the reminder of the loss of Dean as his best friend, and anger at himself for still caring, still loving Dean even though he knows these affections will have no chance of being returned, and after so many years of hard-fought _getting over Dean._

So now, sat in the living room of his old home, going over the matters of their father’s will with Michael and Gabriel, Castiel cannot for the life of him keep his mind static and focussed. It keeps wandering off—and more than this, Castiel _wants_ it to keep wandering off: going over who will inherit what feels, to use a rather morbidly appropriate metaphor, like the final nail in the coffin regarding the reality of their father’s death.

“The house, Castiel,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Michael and Hael have their own house, and Michael doesn’t really want it anyway, seeing as how he isn’t attached to it ‘cause he didn’t grow up here. I pretty much feel the same way, plus, my work is literally in LA, so it’s not really feasible to think of commuting from here.”

“It could be your second home,” Castiel frowns.

“Yeah, again, Cassie,” Gabriel raises his hands, “I’m not exactly _attached._ You’re the one with all the amazing memories of this place.”

Maybe. Castiel is also the one with the sour, stinging memories of this place, too.

“But I live in _Edinburgh,”_ Castiel points out. “I think that trumps California, just slightly.”

“Well, it’s whatever,” Gabriel answers, exasperated, “the house is yours anyway, so.”

“Who says so?!”

“Well _someone’s_ got to have it!”

“But I don’t want it!”

“Why not?”

“I live in Edinburgh!”

“Please, Castiel,” Gabriel rolls his eyes again, “you _really_ think you’re gonna live there forever?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Castiel growls out.

“Okay,” Michael interjects, before Gabriel can reply with something snarky, “Castiel can easily rent it out, while he’s in Scotland. And then, when he’s back in the States, he can stay here.” Michael turns back to Castiel. “How does that sound?”

“Dumb,” Castiel replies frankly. “What kind of person would want to rent a house like this?” He gestures around them. “It’s needlessly large, and unless they have a family, they won’t be able to fill it, and why would they want to rent somewhere that’s so out of the way? Wouldn’t they want to live somewhere more central? _Also,_ who in their right mind would want to have a landlord who quite literally lives in Edinburgh?! I’d be virtually uncontactable, because of time difference, I’d live five thousand _miles_ away—”

“It’s actually more like _four_ thousand,” Gabriel corrects.

“Great,” Castiel rolls his eyes, “thank you, Gabriel.”

“Geez, you don’t have to be so sarcastic about it,” Gabriel replies, frustrated. “Why’re you acting so immature? We know you’re the youngest, Cassie, but this is—”

“Just because you accuse me of being immature doesn’t mean it’s true!”

“Fuck!” Michael exclaims. Castiel is so surprised that he actually jumps. Gabriel, who clearly hadn’t expected the outburst, either, or for Michael to even _curse,_ is stunned into a rare silence. “Dad’s dead for what, a month, and you guys take that as an excuse to start ripping each other’s throats out? What the hell?! You never used to fight like this, c’mon. What’s going on?”

“You two _obviously_ want me to have the house,” Castiel growls, “and not for any reason that I can determine, unless—”

“We want you to have the house so you’ll come back and visit, a little more often!”

“Surely if you wanted me to come back and visit, you’d just invite me round to _your_ places to stay?” Castiel counters. “Gabriel, how much am I gonna see _you,_ if I’m in Lawrence, and you’re in LA? Michael, seeing you is only _just_ more realistic, but let’s be honest, with two kids and a busy job, are you really gonna be able to make it down to see your little brother for more than a day?” Michael and Gabriel have both averted their gaze, with guilty faces. “So, since we’ve pretty much determined that you don’t want me to have the house because _you_ want to see me, who is it that you _do_ want me to see?”

“What are you accusing us of, Castiel?” Michael asks with a cold, calculating frown.

“Oh, Michael,” Castiel grits his teeth, “I think you know.”

“Okay, fine, Cassie, but so what if we are?!” Gabriel groans. “We literally don’t have any use for the house, anyway, and if you decide to sell it, then that just means a lot of shit that _you’re_ gonna have to sort out. ‘Cause half of the crap in here, pretty much, is either yours, or dad’s. Who has time for that? Especially when, as you keep on pointing out, they live in Edinburgh? Four thousand miles is a long way to be downsizing from.”

Castiel glares at his hands.

“Fine,” He mutters, grudgingly, “I’ll take the house.”

 

…

 

“Thanks for coming over,” Castiel says, setting a coffee down in front of Dean. They sit in the kitchen of, what is oddly enough, now Castiel’s house, and no-one else’s. This knowledge makes the white walls feel that little bit colder, when before they were calming and clear. A bitter tang has taken over the taste of this hosue, no longer does it ring with the sounds of home. Castiel realises that, in fact, it was only ever home because of the people he shared it with—namely Jimmy. And maybe, and in a funny sort of way, Dean, too.

“Hey, it’s no problem,” Dean replies. “I was wondering how you were getting along.”

“Really?” Castiel asks, distractedly, steeping his teabag in boiling water. “That’s nice of you.”

He sits down opposite the green eyed man, who laughs.

“You always seem so surprised whenever I do anything moderately decent, toward you,” He points out. Castiel actually laughs, amazed by his own amusement, though of course he shouldn’t be: if anybody were able to make him laugh, even in times such as this, of course it would be Dean, and shakes his head.

“Not surprised,” He denies, “always touched.”

Dean beams.

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Does there have to be a problem for me to want to talk to my oldest friend?” Castiel counters.

“So there isn’t a problem?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the writer, who deflates in his admittance of Dean being, actually, pretty on the money.

“Well, I never said _that,”_ He half-groans. “But part of my problem is that my problem isn’t so easily articulated. Another part of my problem is that I, in fact, have many problems.”

Dean barks out a laugh and takes a long drink of his coffee, staring at Castiel with warm eyes over it all the while.

“God, I’ve missed you,” He beams, when he’s finished. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards, even as he tries to suppress them from doing so. It’s at moments like these where Castiel cannot help but force himself to forget the nine years of anguish, nine years of alone and of heartbreak and of no contact and of hurt, of what Dean said and what Castiel said, what Dean did and indeed, what Castiel also did. In these moments he measures the thickness of Dean’s pretty brown eyelashes with his own gaze, counts the spattering of freckles across nose and cheeks and tries to match them, each and exactly, to a hue of gold or tan that he can think of. He’ll mark the movement of thick, dark lips, the bob of Adam’s apple, the dimples, the inexplicable constant blush that somehow paints a indescribably pretty face even prettier.

Then he remembers.

Nine years of hurt. Nine years of gone. Nine years of missing Dean. Nine years of nothing.

“You flatter me.”

“No, really,” Dean shakes his head. “I—I hope—”

Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“You hope?”

“I hope we stay friends, now,” Dean flushes. “And—I know you’re going back to the UK, but—when is that, by the way?”

“I’ve booked my flight,” Castiel answers. “In about three and a half weeks’ time. But—” Castiel thinks of telling Dean that he has inherited the house, but then changes tack. “I was wondering,” He coughs once into a closed fist, shuffling forward on his seat, scooting his legs further underneath the table, “how do you know where home is?”

Dean sputters on his coffee a moment, then swallows, mouth twitching into a lopsided smile.

“Uh, I’m sorry, Cas,” He begins, shaking his head affectionately, “I’m not sure I follow.”

“How do we know where we belong? How do we know where we should be?”

“Do you know where you want to be?” Dean asks with a frown.

“No,” Castiel sighs, thinking of his students, the beautiful high buildings of Edinburgh, of its old cobbled streets and darkened alleys, its hills, its history, the cold, the snow, the moody sheets of rain and coffee shops, the castle, the long and bracing walks, of Arthur’s Seat and the streets piled one on top of another, criss-crossing constantly in picturesque serenity. Then he thinks of here, of his childhood home, of Dean and his brilliant green eyes, of the sound of his laughter, of how his laughter makes Castiel feel, of the sweet rumble of Dean’s voice and the graceful way his lips lift upward into a smile, and, inexplicably, the prettiness of the ridges of Dean’s knuckles. “But does anyone?”

Dean chuckles.

“Maybe not,” He admits, looking away. “But most people know in an aspirational kind of sense. Like, we all want what we can’t have.” He pauses. “I know where in life _I_ want to be, for example. I just also happen to know I can’t get there.”

“And what if, theoretically, you know you can be in any of the places you want—or, not any, but either of the places you want. What then?”

“Then you’re a lucky bastard,” Dean shrugs, grinning, “And I guess you’ve gotta make a choice,” He states, tone becoming more serious.

“But what do I choose?” Castiel asks, pleading.

“If you don’t know _where_ you want, maybe choose where you’re _wanted.”_

Dean stares hard at the writer.

Castiel slumps.

Well, Dean’s pretty much spelt out _stay in Edinburgh,_ then. Where else is Castiel wanted?

But then, what reason has Castiel given Dean to want him here?

“Okay,” Castiel looks down, “enough about me, and my cryptic issues. How are you?”

Dean shrugs, cracking a smile.

“Now, _that’s_ a question you know I’ll never answer honestly.”

“Please answer it honestly,” Castiel replies, “or else I’ll start asking questions that are more explicit.”

“More explicit?” Dean repeats with a confused frown.

“Like, how are you doing, since my dad died, seeing as he was a father figure to you for twenty three years, especially after your own dad died.”

Dean sputters.

“Well, shit, Cas,” He looks away, eyes wide with shock, “excuse me if I don’t feel comfortable enough to answer that, like, _ever.”_

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” Castiel raises both his hands, backing off. “But I really do care.”

Dean looks back up at him and presses his lips together.

“Thanks.” Dean’s gaze flickers away from Castiel’s face. “Honestly, I miss him a lot. Obviously. But I don’t want to say any shit that’s gonna make you sad,” Dean shakes his head.

“Nothing you could say will make me sad,” Castiel denies. “I’m asking because I want to know. I’ve grieved, I’m still grieving, and I’ve been given opportunities to do that effectively. I just worry that you haven’t.”

Dean coughs once, looking down.

“Cas, man…. You know how bad I am at opening up. Isn’t it kind of unfair of you to expect me to be able to just—I don’t know—”

“We used to talk feelings all the time,” Castiel points out candidly.

“Yeah, but…”

“Do you have _anybody_ to talk about your feelings with?”

Dean looks down, obviously uncomfortable.

“I’m not a girl…”

Castiel rolls his eyes, tempted to be offended.

“Sexist,” He points out, “and emotions aren’t exclusively for women. Or inherently bad. They humanise us, so I think they’re actually pretty good. Also, don’t equate femininity with inferiority. That’s called misogyny.”

“Right, forgot I was talking to an intellectual,” Dean rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Would you tell any of your students that it’s bad, or weak, to feel things?” Castiel presses. Dean sips awkwardly on his coffee, averting his gaze.

“Uh, no, of _course_ not, Cas,” Dean rolls his eyes.

“Then why can’t you be as kind to yourself as you are to them?” Castiel asks. Dean swallows and doesn’t answer, face red. “Or at least half as kind, one quarter? Dean, you really are so deserving of kindness. Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Cas, I’m not good at these conversations…”

“Do you have _any_ kind of emotional outlet?”

Dean gulps all of his coffee down, probably burning his mouth in the process, judging by his wincing expression—which on second thought, may also be attributable to the discomforting nature of Castiel’s question—and gets up to refill his cup.

“I write songs, Cas. Isn’t that sissy enough?”

Castiel glares.

“That’s an ugly word. And I hope you know what I mean by ‘ugly’”

“Then I’m sorry I used it,” Dean turns around, taking a sip from his refilled cup, resting against the workbench. “But the point still stands. I write songs about how I feel. Isn’t that enough?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel counters, tilting his head to the side. _“Is_ it enough?”

Dean breaks his gaze away after about a half-second of staring at Castiel.

“Maybe not,” He admits, hands closing round the edge of the worktop for a moment. “Maybe not,” He repeats, pushing himself off it and making his way back over to Castiel with slow, heavy steps of a defeated man, sitting down. “But I’m getting by.”

“And I’m proud of you, for that.”

Dean all-out stares at Castiel.

“Proud?” He repeats, his lips moving around the word in half time.

“Proud,” Castiel confirms. “I know—I know the years haven’t been easy on you, Dean. And I know I don’t have much of a right to say that, considering how I haven’t been around for a decade, but—”

“Hey,” Dean waves his hand dismissively, looking down and wrinkling his nose as he interrupts Castiel, “don’t worry about it. And don’t be apologetic.” Dean swallows. It looks difficult. “I mean—I know we haven’t really—but I shut _you_ out, didn’t I? That was me. It’s not your fault.”   

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, “I shut you out, too—”

“Cas, you don’t need to—”

“It was a collaborative effort. A group shutting out.”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards into a closed-mouth, reluctant though undeniably warm smile.

“You’re kind, you know that? Like, you’re one of the grumpiest and stubbornest people I know, but you’re so damn kind, Cas. It always amazes me.”

“If you pack a compliment in with two insults, I’m not really sure it counts, Dean.”

The green eyed man snorts, shifting so that his elbows are resting on the table and looking down, eyes closing briefly. He clasps his hands together, where they fiddle with each other, distractedly.

“Funny, too,” Dean says. “People will never understand how funny you are.”

“I think you just always liked laughing at me,” Castiel points out.

“Believe me, Cas, it was affectionate, if nothing else,” Dean grins. Castiel smiles, pulling a longsuffering expression.

“I’ll count my blessings.”

“Hey,” Dean says, as if suddenly struck by a thought of pressing urgency, “we were talking about feelings.”

“We were.”

“Do you get to express yours to anybody? Do you have anyone to like, process things with?”

“Michael and Hael, when they force it out of me,” Castiel chuckles. “And, for all my criticism of you for saying music, I suppose the most effective—or at least most regularly used way I sort through emotions, is by writing. Which works for me, and very well. But I fear you might be the kind of person who needs another _person_ to talk to, not a notebook.”

Dean smirks, gaze averted.

“Maybe you’re right…” He admits.

“You can’t talk to your brother? You and Sam were closer than anyone, when I knew you.”

“Yeah, well, a lot can change in a decade, Cas.”

“How much?”

“Me and Sam don’t really talk, any more.”

“What do you mean?”

Dean swallows guiltily.

“I don’t know,” He nearly snaps out, sounding defensive. “I guess something just changed, one day.”

“What changed?” Castiel asks. “Who changed?”

“Damn, I didn’t come over here expecting the Spanish inquisition.”

Dean looks serious, grumpy. His brow is set in an uncooperative frown, and if Castiel hadn’t expected this at his admittedly incessant prodding, he’d be taken aback, perhaps even upset at the scowling, teenage expression scrawled across Dean’s features. As it is, and even after all these years, he knows Dean well. Very well, and dearly. And so he prods a little more.

“After you found out about Sam’s addiction?” He asks, and perhaps Dean hadn’t expected it, or at least had not expected it to be named so explicitly, because he downright flinches in response.

The scowl grows.

“Not addiction…” Dean shakes his head, sinking down in his seat. Something in his person grows burdened, as though weighed down by the full extent of all Dean’s responsibilities for this past decade. “The addiction was fine. Well, not _fine,_ but… If it had happened any other way, I think I’d be okay with it. Like, if he’d _told_ me. But no, his girlfriend dies, he starts hanging around with some nasty, and I mean _nasty_ girl, who gets him taking all this crap, and he refuses to talk to me, any more, doesn’t pick up my calls, shuts me out completely—as if that kind of shit doesn’t hurt a person enough?! And then one day he overdoses. And—” Dean cuts himself off. His eyes glisten. “There’ve been a couple’a moments in my life, where it’s felt like everything’s been falling apart around me, like I’m the one with the sky on his shoulders, who’s got to sort things out, hold everything up, but I can’t…. I’m too weak, I’m helpless… That was one of those moments. And I don’t know. I just can’t talk to Sam, after that. I just can’t trust him.”

“You feel that his addiction was a betrayal?” Castiel asks. Dean stares at the table, finger drawing distracted patterns across its surface. “You feel that in his overdose, he broke your trust?”

Dean coughs, expression troubled.

“Something like that,” He answers. “But it’s more, and I can’t do it justice—you… You make me sound petty, when you say it that way. He’s overdosed _loads._ After that, it was like he just gave up, like the floodgates opened. And not just heroin, all kinds of crap. And he doesn’t _talk_ to me,” Dean says, looking back up to Castiel, roughly. His eyes are still stung with tears. “And even now, he doesn’t. You know what I found, on the day of your dad’s funeral? I went round to pick Sammy up—he wasn’t even _dressed,_ you know? But I went to pick him up, and while he was showering, I was getting him some clothes ready, and you know what I found? Smack, _again,_ in his sock drawer. He was hiding it from me. He _still_ hasn’t told mom, keeps saying he wasn’t gonna take it—like, as _if_ I’d believe that?!”

Dean’s voice grows louder with feeling, his expression is somehow cut off from Castiel and the room around them, and seems, instead, in the presence of his brother as they have this fight, where Dean confronts Sam about the heroin and Sam attempts to deny it.

“I’m not an idiot, why does he act like I’m an idiot?! What the hell, are they selling fucking _ornamental_ heroin, now? But he still has the audacity to lie to me, his brother, when I’m the only one who’s stuck by him, through all of this—” Dean breaks off, suddenly catching himself. “Sorry,” He says, eyes filling regret as he centres back, into the kitchen, into reality, in front of Castiel in the white house he spent so much of his childhood in, back into their conversation. “You can’t have wanted to hear any of that,” Dean lets out a self-abasing laugh. “And this is what happens when you ask me to open up.”

“I’m glad I did,” Castiel replies, honestly. Dean presses his lips together, a wall going up around his features so that Castiel cannot read them.

“We got in a fight on the day of Jimmy’s funeral,” He confesses. “I guess you heard that?”

“I did,” Castiel admits. Dean snorts bitterly.

“Of course. Nothin’ happens in a vacuum, no business is private.”

“I think people were worried.”

“Ha,” Dean rolls his eyes. “People are nosy, and my mom’s a blabbermouth.”

“She was probably just explaining what had been going on.”

“We got in another fight, the other night,” Dean says, voice quieting.

“You and your mother?” Castiel asks.

“No,” Dean snorts again. “There’s no use arguing with my mom, she _has_ to be right, always. At least with Sammy you get the feeling it’s a conversation, even if it’s more like a conversation with a brick wall than a person.”

“So it was a verbal fight? Not physical?”

“Cas,” Dean frowns, seriously, “Sammy and I—that day of shiva—Sammy punching me…. That was honestly a real first. Well, maybe not a _real_ first—but normally we just have shouting matches. No hits. Not physical ones, at least. And it was only ‘cause emotions were high. I provoked him.”

“So what did you fight over?”

“The fight a couple of days ago?” Dean asks. Castiel nods. “I asked Sam if he’d throw away the smack, in front of me. Flush it away, so I knew it had happened.”

“And?”

“He refused,” Dean looks down, jaw clenching. “Said I was overstepping. What kind of bullshit?! So I said something along the lines of, _you’ve taken it, haven’t you?_ Innocent, nothing offensive. And I mean, a fact’s a fact, he obviously _had_ taken the heroin. But then he started saying he hadn’t, that he must’ve lost it—and I don’t know. I guess I just lost my shit. Started giving it to him, and hard, about how he was throwing his life away, about how I didn’t know him any more, about how he was going nowhere, relying on me, and I was sick of it. About how his actions weren’t excusable. About how Jess died nearly two _years_ ago; he needs to get over it. And I guess I asked for it. He started giving back just as hard as he got. Said some thing—” But here, Dean falters. “He said some things that weren’t too kind. But I guess I deserved them. They weren’t _wrong,_ and I was laying it pretty hard on him. But I didn’t see it like that at the time. So I just stormed out. And here we are,” He shrugs, shaking his head pitifully. “Haven’t spoken to him, or seen him since then.”

Castiel’s brow slopes in melancholic sympathy.

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry,” He shakes his head.

But Dean brushes him off.

“What’re _you_ sorry for? I’m the one who fucked up. It’s on me. It’s all on me.”

“You didn’t fuck up—”

“Oh, shut up,” Dean rolls his eyes, almost snarls, bitterly.

Castiel hardens, but doesn’t respond with fire.

“Have you told your mother about this?”

“I’ve told you, haven’t I? I can’t talk to my mom about anything.”

“You haven’t, actually,” Castiel shakes his head. “And why not?”

Dean growls.

“You were the one with awesome parents, Cas, not me.”

“Par _ent,”_ Castiel corrects, to which Dean flushes. “And that hardly answers my question. Why can’t you talk to Mary?”

“Mary,” Dean presses his lips together a moment, jaw clenching, “hasn’t taken responsibility for things she ought to have, and hasn’t righted wrongs she’s seen done. And we both know this, but neither of us acknowledge it, neither of us talk about it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Castiel asks with a frown.

Dean sighs and shakes his head.

“I can’t explain it,” He says, defeatedly. “Not to you, not to anyone.”

“Why not to me?” Castiel asks.

“Jimmy was the best dad, ever,” Dean sniffs, instead of answering. “Every day, I miss him.”

“Every day I miss him, too,” Castiel replies. “And he loved you, Dean. So much. Saw you as his son.”

“He already had three sons, Cas,” Dean snorts bitterly. “He didn’t need another.”

“Well, he got another,” Castiel counters. “Got another _two,”_ He corrects. “You _and_ Sammy. And he wanted you, and loved you, and cared so deeply about you, Dean, you have no idea. So there.”

A tear finally, finally, leaks onto Dean’s cheek at this. His whole body seems to sag with the relief of it.

“You mean that?” He asks.

“Of course,” Castiel replies, earnestly. His voice tears a little at his throat.

“He was so good,” Dean laughs, more tears spilling onto his cheeks, now. “People are so shitty, you know? But Jimmy was so, so good.”

“I know,” Castiel laughs, welling up himself, “he really was.”

“How did he react, when you came out?” Dean asks, looking up suddenly at Castiel. “I realise I never asked you.”

“Why do you ask, now?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs, frowning and averting his gaze. “I guess I just…. He never cared, did he? But then his faith was such a big part of who he was. I guess I just never knew how a person could… reconcile the two, I guess. I never thought they could.”

“Yes, I remember you saying,” Castiel replies. “All those years ago, after Charlie’s party. Do you remember?”

“Of course,” Dean answers, with a bitter laugh. Castiel is a little taken aback by it.

“Well, anyway, no, Jimmy didn’t care. Our temple’s pretty liberal, and was, even when I came out. They were more concerned about the fact that Samandriel was a goy, than that he was a man.”

“What’s a goy, again?” Dean asks, smiling. “A one of me?”

“One of you,” Castiel nods, with a laugh. Dean chuckles. “A non-Jew.”

“I could be offended by that,” Dean points out, but still smiles.

“If you were, we’d have to stop being friends.”

Dean laughs, rich and warm.

“So that really matters to you, huh? Would you not marry someone, if they were a gentile?”

“Nah,” Castiel shrugs, “I don’t know. I don’t really give a shit. But then I kind of do. It’s complicated.”

Dean chuckles again.

“So your congregation, they didn’t care that you were bi?”

“They didn’t, and they don’t.”

“So you’re still bi, then?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Castiel asks with a frown.

“I don’t know—” Dean raises his hands, “sexuality is fluid, that’s all. I mean, I remember how you didn’t really think ‘bi’ suited you, when we were kids—”

“And it didn’t,” Castiel answers, “I just didn’t know what else to call myself.”

“And do you, now?” Dean asks.

“Queer,” Castiel shrugs, and Dean wrinkles his nose.

“I don’t really like that word.”

“Well, that’s alright for you, you don’t have to use it. And you shouldn’t call anyone queer, unless they’re okay with it, especially if you’re straight,” Castiel points out. Dean presses his lips together, averting his gaze. “And if not bi, then pansexual,” The writer admits.

“Pansexual?” Dean repeats. “The hell is that?”

“It’s complicated,” Castiel shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.

“Yeah, and I’m not stupid,” Dean glares. “What is it? C’mon, Cas, you really think I’m gonna give you shit over you saying you’re ponsexual—”

 _“Pan_ sexual.”

“Pansexual,” Dean amends. “Whatever it is. Why would I give you shit?”

“Well, if you imagine the slating that bi people get within the community,” Castiel says, “then imagine that half the community doesn’t even know you exist. And then imagine that outside of that, most of the _world_ doesn’t think you exist…”

“So what is it?”

“Uh, some people describe it differently…” Castiel answers, non-comitantly.

Dean sighs, and rolls his eyes.

“And how do _you_ describe it?”

Castiel licks his lips nervously.

He’s already come out to Dean once, why should it feel like he’s doing it again? And why should he _have_ to do it again?

“As… I don’t know, as attraction to all genders. Or attraction to people, regardless of gender.”

“And what’s the difference between pan, and bi?”

“Some people identify as both,” Castiel shuffles a little more.

“But you don’t?” Dean asks. “Why not?”

“‘Bi’ implies a ‘two’—so just boy and girl. It actually means ‘two or more’, but it’s the implication that I can’t really identify with. It also—I don’t know, it connotes a preference.”

“How do you mean?”

“As in, you might like one gender for one reason, another gender for another. You see genders as attractive for different reasons. Which maybe some pan people do, as well—sexuality isn’t concrete, neither are our definitions—but, I guess, ‘pan’, meaning ‘all’, would suggest not an indifference, but… It’s as though gender isn’t really a factor? If I find someone attractive, I find someone attractive.”

“Right…” Dean nods slowly, as though genuinely trying to understand. “So, like, a bi person—that’s like, if I think spaghetti and meatballs are fuckin’ awesome. They taste real good. Wholesome and satisfying on a level. But then I also like cheesecake, which is all sweet and moreish. And maybe there’s crossover, like they’re both filling, but they’re still different. I like them for different reasons.”

Castiel laughs, taken aback.

“Right…”

“And _pan_ sexuality,” Dean goes on, talking, not to Castiel it would seem, but rather to himself, nodding thoughtfully and with a distant expression as he goes on, “that’s like, you go to an ice cream parlour. And there’re all these flavours. And you like _all_ of them. There’s bubblegum, and strawberry, and cookies and cream, and peanut butter, and double chocolate, and they’re all sugary and good, and you like all of them. So you just say to the ice cream guy, ‘hey, surprise me’, ‘cause you know you’ll be happy with whatever. Is that it?”

Dean looks up at Castiel, grinning with pride as he finishes his analogy.

Castiel bursts into laughter, beaming.

“Trust you to relate sexuality to food, Dean,” He chuckles. Dean smirks. “But… That sums it up pretty well, for me. Of course, different people will say different things. Some pan people may choose to date one gender, for any kind of reason—they may actually have a preference, they may not have come out yet, et cetera. But… The ice cream metaphor is nice.”

“I’m glad you think so. I guess I should be educating myself a little more on this kind of stuff, huh?”

“Maybe,” Castiel admits.

“I guess it’s just a pretty big world,” Dean confesses, “and so many different words for things, so many articles—I’ve tried reading some, but my head just starts spinning—”

“Why does your head start spinning?” Castiel asks with a frown. Dean looks away, pink creeping across the expanse of his cheeks.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs, “attention difficulties? I can’t read fucking anything, Cas. You know that.”

Somehow Castiel doubts that this is the whole truth.

 

…

 

“Castiel, you _do_ know how I loathe favours—”

“This isn’t a favour,” Castiel counters, pushing open the door to The Roadhouse. “If anything, I’m doing _you_ a favour.”

“That’s what they all say,” Balthazar rolls his eyes. Castiel turns back to him from where he stands, at the doorway, to see Balthazar taking a step back, looking up to The Roadhouse and its yellowing lights, giving the establishment a deeply appraising look. Castiel’s body straightens out, as though he too, is being judged critically. He gives his friend a quietly scornful look at the discriminating character of Balthazar’s features—but the gentle playing of a guitar inside distracts him.

“What a dive,” Balthazar rolls his eyes, shaking his head and stepping forward. “And I suppose that’s him, is it?” He asks, gesturing inside, in reference to the music emanating from within the yellow light and bustling silhouettes of Ellen’s bar.

“It is,” Castiel nods. He holds the door open to Balthazar. “And you’ll be thanking me—”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because I’ve heard Dean play,” Castiel explains, pushing through figures clumped together, a mess of weathered leather and denim jackets, of men who are weeks unshaven and smell more like stale beer than human being. “And he’s _good—_ the kind of good we don’t get to hear anymore—or at least, that _you_ complain that we don’t get to hear anymore.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Castiel finds an empty table in the corner of the bar, a fair way away from, but still in the line of sight of, the stage. The music has stopped, and Castiel guesses that Dean has gone to take a break, probably—and this thought worries him—drinking far more than he ought to be.

“What was it you said was lacking in your movie? What did it need?”

“Sincerity.”

Balthazar sits down. Castiel smiles by the very corners of his mouth, and does the same.

“Exactly.”

“And you think this friend of yours is what I’ve been looking for? The final piece in the puzzle that will stop my currently-pretentious, dispassionate, uncompelling coming-of-age film sucking proverbial dick?”

“I’m saying that _you’re_ gonna think that, when you hear him.”

Balthazar rolls his eyes again and leans back on his chair. He lifts his right foot to his left knee and crosses his legs, elbow resting on his right knee. He looks up at the ceiling, obviously irritated but also caught between this frustration and his usual nonchalant indifference.

“Do you know how many people tell me they’ve found some new, budding talent—who also ‘happens’ to be a friend or relative of theirs—who they’d like to show me? Just so I can make them famous? I hate to break it to you, Cassie, but you’re hardly the first—”

“If I wanted to make him famous, Balthazar, I could do it myself,” Castiel sighs, sitting forward in his seat and glaring at his British friend.

“By, what?” Balthazar smirks easily, finger playing absent-mindedly with the corner of his bemused smile. “Immortalising him in fiction?”

“I have an influence, believe it or not,” Castiel rolls his eyes, sitting back on his chair and closing his fists round each arm of it.

“Oh, I’ve heard—you got asked to speak in a _school—_ very impressive—”

“It was my old school, Balthazar, and I was doing the principle a favour,” Castiel grits his teeth.

“All I’m saying is,” Balthazar raises his hands at Castiel’s frustrated tone, “if you’d agreed to write that TV series with me, instead of teaching at a university, then—”

“We were talking about Dean,” Castiel grumbles, rubbing his temples with middle and forefingers. “And for your information, I _don’t_ regret my decision to lecture at Edinburgh. It’s the most beautiful city in the world—”

“You could be living in _London_ with _me,”_ Balthazar tips his chair back and looks up to the ceiling wistfully. “Oh, it’d have been grand—you could’ve had an apartment on Southbank overlooking the Thames, a townhouse by Primrose Hill, a home in Wimbledon—”

“We were talking about _Dean,”_ Castiel repeats, already exhausted by his friend’s deliberate difficulty. He crosses his hands on the table and peers earnestly at Balthazar. “Honestly, Balthazar, I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t think he was any good.”

“I’m sure he’s _good,”_ Balthazar concedes grudgingly, exasperated, “but _good_ isn’t good enough, when it comes to making soundtracks. People want to be blown _away—”_

“And they _will_ be,” Castiel presses. “You’ve said you’re making a movie about teenagers in Kansas, that you can’t find anyone who can write songs for shit—well, Dean’s _been_ a teenager in Kansas. And, listening to his music, he knows all about heartbreak and tragedy and drunken nights made numb with ephemeral happiness—and none of it’s pretentious. It’s soul-soothing. Soul- _wrenching._ Listen to it, you’ll see what I mean. And then we can get to talking about you making a movie out of _my_ books—which, by the way, I’m still not sold on. I saw how you slaughtered—”

“Oh my God, _fine,_ Castiel,” Balthazar groans. “I’ll listen. Where the hell is he, anyway?”

Castiel scans the bar, the tables, eyes finding Ellen, Jo, Ash, Bobby—but not Dean. Where is he? Has his set already finished?

A light brown-haired head emerges from a back room with a beer in hand. Ellen eyes the figure warily, as though worried a repeat of the last night Castiel was here will happen again.

He wears a beaten, dark denim shirt for a jacket, a gray tee under it, and jeans ripped—not by style, but by usage—in several places.

“Oh, good Lord,” Balthazar laments, following Castiel’s gaze, “is that him?”

Castiel swallows and turns back to Balthazar.

“What?”

And Balthazar turns back to him.

“He looks like he’s caught somewhere between tramp-chic, and wannabe metalhead.”

“That’s probably offensive,” Castiel muses, “and you consider it to be a bad thing?”

“He looks like a douche.”

“Lucky that I’ve not suggested him as a stylist, then,” Castiel counters, frowning defensively at the director-producer, “and rather a songwriter.”

Balthazar smirks.

“Touché,” He allows, nodding his head by way of conceding this point to the writer. “Alright,” He turns back to Dean, who makes his way up to the stage, “let’s hear him then.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” Castiel promises. Balthazar laughs wryly.

“For your sake, I hope not.”

Dean picks up his guitar with one hand, before taking one last, long drink from his beer and setting it down on the floor. He takes his seat on the weathered stool, and swallowing, pulls the ancient mic toward him.

“Back again,” He greets, and a couple of laughs roll out from amongst the audience. People ordering drinks at the bar stop and turn to Dean, conversation dying down, almost respectfully, as he speaks. “Hope you’re all havin’ a good night—”

“Good God,” Balthazar groans, lounging back on his chair as though he expects this to be quite an ordeal. Castiel kicks him under the table.

“Hey!” Balthazar exclaims, and Dean must hear it, because his gaze flickers over to the pair in the corner, and, for whatever reason, his expression falls.

Why is he looking so disappointed to be seeing Castiel?

Dean’s eyes graze over to Balthazar, and his jaw clenches. Castiel marks the way he swallows thickly and how painful it looks, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down slowly and jarringly, as though it doesn’t want to move. Suddenly Dean rips his eyes away from the pair, but his features are still sloped, his lips curl.

Is Dean disgusted to see Castiel sitting with another man?

Has he assumed that Castiel is taking Balthazar on a date? _Fuck_ Dean! For all his pretenses—continued over and over ever since Castiel was first forced to come out to Dean—every time the green-eyed man has seen Castiel in a capacity that could be construed as even slightly _gay,_ for want of a better word, Dean has done this: withdrawn himself, looked, acted, disgusted and disappointed with his once best friend.

And after all that Castiel has done for him? Is _doing_ for him, in bringing Balthazar here, persuading him to listen to Dean play. And now Dean looks away from him in abhorrence because, the idiot that he is, Dean is convinced that Castiel is dating Balthazar.

Castiel shouldn’t even be here! He’s not supposed to listen to music live for a _year_ after his father’s death! But he’s doing a favour for his friend—no, not his friend any more. This is it. _Fuck_ this. Fuck Dean.

He seethes in his chair even as Dean speaks, and refuses to let the slow, drawling rumble of that voice soothe him.

“I, uh—” Dean’s eyes are glittering. Why do they glitter? Why is he so sad? “This is a song I wrote—about—” He swallows and looks down. “About—some stupid, teenage heartbreak I went through,” His voice has taken on the signature self-deprecating tone. “You know the ones,” He laughs bitterly, and the audience joins in. Balthazar swears irritatedly under his breath, probably at Dean’s style or manner of speech, but this time Castiel doesn’t feel the need to reprimand him.

“Of course you know the ones,” Dean continues, expression wry and upset. “Doubt we’d have nearly so many customers if you’d all married your high school sweethearts.”

The audience laughs again at this, louder—and to Castiel’s surprise, so does Balthazar, however reluctantly.

“It’s under a working title,” Dean admits, “and for want of a better one, for now, I’m calling it _The Dark._ I’ll let you know when it changes, which it probably— _hopefully—_ will, if I manage to think of anything less cruddy.”

Balthazar smiles.

Castiel watches him closely.

Dean starts playing, one note at a time, the sound filled with vibrato and nostalgia as he plucks at his guitar.

 _I can never talk me down_ _  
_ _I could never turn me round_ _  
_ _At the edge of the pool, I watch me drown_ _  
_ _I call for help but there is no sound,_   
No sound in a world without you.

 _I’m stuck on a road_ _  
_ _I’m stood up on a roof_ _  
_ _And it’s dark, it’s dark, so dark out here_ _  
_ _It’s dark out here without you._   
And it’s dark in the world without you.

 _I’ll keep on hanging on_ _  
_ _‘Cause that’s what I always do,_ _  
_ _I’ll keep on hanging on_ _  
_ _‘Cause I can never see things through,_   
And even though I spurned you, kid, I’ll keep on loving you.

 _I sit and watch the dark at night_ _  
_ _Instead of watching you._ _  
_ _Remember how we slept and you might_ _  
_ _See what’s really true,_ _  
_ _But now the resting darkness is all I have in view,_ _  
_ _There’s no sound in a world,_ _  
_ _It’s dark in the world,_   
And I’ll keep on loving you.

The song ends. Dean looks down, head shaking minutely in the orange light. Castiel watches it, the way the lighting catches on his cheekbones and makes his hair look darker than it really is.

Balthazar sits back in his seat and sighs. That he had been leaning forward is a good sign, and Castiel has quite forgotten his earlier anger toward Dean, now taken with observing his friend appraising the green eyed man.

But the director-producer says nothing: his hand covers his mouth in thoughtfulness and he nods his head once. Castiel is about to ask what he thought of it, but is interrupted by Jo at the table.

“Hey, sorry it’s taken so long to serve you, we’re kind of packed tonight,” She states, straightening out her black tee. “What can I get you boys?”

Balthazar, drawn out of his contemplative stupor, turns, ready to order, but Castiel cuts him off.

“Jo,” He greets, “it’s good to see you. How’ve you been?”

Balthazar sighs pointedly.

“Yeah, okay, thank you, Cas,” She smiles. “I won’t assume you’ll want to tell me how you are, but I hope you’re doin’ alright.”

Castiel smiles weakly, certainly appreciating Jo’s honesty—and her understanding. Jo’s father died when she was just a child, alongside John Winchester, who worked with him, so she knows better than most the rawness of sudden grief.

“Thank you, Jo, that’s kind of you. Is Dean the one bringing in all these customers?”

Jo laughs, looking about her.

“Y’know, he’s actually built up quite a cult following. A couple of hipsters and lots of old men who miss feeling however Dean’s music makes them feel, even a couple of kids trying to get in on a fake ID. He’s proving popular, now he’s doing his own stuff, but—” She laughs again, and shakes her head a little sadly, “you wouldn’t think he believed it, listening to the way he talks about his shows.”

“He doesn’t think he plays well?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows in concern. Dean has started up a new song, this one rougher and perhaps a little trendier and retro than the last; Balthazar has turned back to him, having lost interest in the conversation. _At least he’s taken an interest in Dean,_ Castiel remarks to himself.

“He thinks it’s crap,” Jo sighs, half in amusement, half in frustration. “But that’s Dean, y’know? Never can admit when he’s doing something right. At least—” And her face falls down, a little sadly, “not any more.”

Castiel’s mouth closes, he presses his lips together.

“And how does he explain all the numbers?”

“The numbers?” Jo repeats with a frown.

“The number of the people coming to The Roadhouse to watch him play.”

“Oh,” Jo rolls her eyes, “he just thinks they’re coming here for the drinks, that they dig the retro and kinda-shitty but kinda-charming vibe of the place,” Jo shrugs. “I dunno. It’s weird—so is Dean. Can I get you anything?”

“An Old Fashioned for me—and, Balthazar? A Gin and Tonic?”

Balthazar turns round again languidly.

“Oh, yes,” He nods vaguely in confirmation. Then, looking up at Jo, “You do serve those, don’t you?”

Jo bristles.

“Sure, we serve ‘em,” She confirms. “Anything else?”

“Shots?” Balthazar asks, turning to grin at Castiel.

“Absolutely not,” The writer shakes his head. Balthazar slumps and groans in disappointment, then returns his focus to Dean. “Thank you, Jo,” Castiel looks back up at her, who smiles warmly and nods once to Castiel.

“No problem. Your drinks’ll be here in no time.”

When she leaves, Balthazar glances back to Castiel.

“My God, she’s _so_ American.”

“What does that mean?” Castiel asks with a frown. “So am I.”

“No,” Balthazar shakes his head, “you’re not _so_ American, you just happen to be _from_ America. Big difference. Dean, by the way, is _so_ American.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

Balthazar shrugs.

“Depends on who you ask. If you asked _me...”_ But he deliberately trails off.

“You’re being kind of an ass,” Castiel points out. “And Jo thought you were kind of an ass. I could tell.”

“I _am_ kind of an arse,” Balthazar points out. “And lucky for you, I don’t mind being called one.”

“Well, I wish you’d be a little more polite.”

“What, to the tomboy?”

“To Jo,” Castiel corrects, “and yes.”

Balthazar shrugs.

“Fine. There’s a certain charm in being _so_ American, you know. I never said it was an inherently bad thing.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Right.”

“It can be very charming, in fact.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Small town, plaid shirt—”

“Shut up, Balthazar.”

Balthazar laughs. Castiel glares at him, just as Dean’s song ends. Jo comes over with their drinks.

“G and T,” She lays it down in front of Balthazar, “and an Old Fashioned,” in front of Castiel.

“Thank you, Jo,” Castiel smiles.

“No problem,” She returns the look, and leaves them.

“So what do you think?” Castiel asks, after a pause, in which Balthazar takes a long, smooth sip of his drink. He looks over to Castiel from the rim of his glass.

“What do I think about what?” He asks, coolly. Castiel scowls.

“Don’t be like that, Balthazar, what do you think of _Dean?”_

Balthazar smiles coyly.

“Oh, I’m not so sure,” He grimaces. “He’s not really the—”

_“Balthazar,”_

The blond-haired man barks out a laugh just as Dean starts up his next song.

“Ah, sorry,” He screws up his face in a pained expression, “I don’t want to interrupt the performance. Won’t tell you now.”

Castiel groans and slouches down in his chair.

This song is like a shot of eighties reminiscence. It’s slow and angsty and sounds almost hazy, even if the guitar parts that Dean plucks out rather than strums pierce the mood of nostalgia and longing with something vivid and distinctly pained.

 _I don’t wanna see you dance_ _  
_ _If it’s gonna be with another man_ _  
_ _And yeah, you’ve got every chance_ _  
_ _To get out of and into any town_ _  
_ _While I’m stuck in here, and it’s all on my own_   
And I don’t wanna see you dance.

 _There’s a song they played on the radio_ _  
_ _I think if I danced it with you, we’d take it slow_ _  
_ _And there’s no way out of this quiet town_ _  
_ _And everything right now just seems so down._ _  
_ _I don’t care if you’ve got exciting news_ _  
_ _When all I’ve got are my strings, my drums and my blues._ _  
_ _You say you’re not the guy I thought you were_   
Well I look at you and I’m not so sure.

 _I know the place I wanna be_ _  
_ _I know the place I wanna be_ _  
_ _I know the place I wanna be,_ _  
_ _It’s right with you, and I’d be happy._ _  
_ _It’s right with you, and I’d be happy._   
If I were with you, I think I’d be happy.

Balthazar is smiling, now.

Castiel stares at him.

“So,” He says, strangely terrified, “seriously. Did you like it?”

Balthazar’s eyes flit back to Castiel. He smiles crookedly and winningly, by the corner of his mouth.

“I think,” Balthazar concedes, and Castiel’s heart flutters excitedly—with joy, for Dean—inside his ribcage, “that I’ve found my new composer.”

Castiel beams.  

Dean plays another three songs—two dedicated to his father, one of them angry and heavy, and another… soft. And bitter and sad and wistful.

Well, Castiel has always known that Dean’s relationship with John was strained, but here it sounds painful, pleading, as though Dean, in song, is begging his father for something. Love? Acceptance?

When it ends, Dean thanks the crowd, rather red, seemingly oblivious to their applause, and gets down from the stage. He goes straight to the bar and pours himself a needlessly large vodka.

“Jesus,” Balthazar frowns, “is he going to drink that straight?”

“Most likely,” Castiel sighs, watching Dean in dismay. He waves to attract the green-eyed man’s attention, which Dean gives, reluctantly, after several moments, and nods in greeting. Dean presses his lips together grimly and forces a smile from across the bar. Castiel beckons him over. Then he turns back to Balthazar. “Be nice,” He says. “And don’t make any jokes if you think they _might_ be rude. Okay?”

“Okay,” Balthazar laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t know why you’re feeling so defensive of him, I don’t _bite.”_

“I think we both know that’s not true,” Castiel retorts, then looks back up at Dean, who is unmoving, staring at him and Balthazar. Castiel, frustrated and certainly showing it, beckons a little more forcefully. “Another thing,” He turns to Balthazar, “you’re sure about this? You really want to hire him?”

Balthazar sits back in his chair.

“Much as it pains me to admit it, Castiel,” He says, “and believe me, it does, I think that—on this occasion—you were right.”

He grimaces comically at the end of this sentence, and Castiel chuckles.

“Well then, I suppose I ought to thank you for trusting me.”

Balthazar smiles warmly.

“My pleasure.”

“Cas,” Dean approaches the table cautiously. “Hey—hi—what’s up?”

Balthazar smirks, probably at the fact that Dean has just greeted Castiel in four different ways out of nervousness, but Castiel doesn’t frown at him, troubled instead by the fact that Dean _still_ can’t seem to look at Castiel straight when the writer is doing things Dean would assume to be particularly queer.

“This is Balthazar,” Castiel gestures to the man sat opposite. “We came to watch you play.”

“Oh,” Dean shifts uncomfortably on his feet, looking down, then up to nod shortly to Balthazar. “Thank you—it’s—it’s nice to meet you. You guys—are you havin’ a good night?”

“It’s been surprisingly productive,” Balthazar smiles genuinely, but Dean definitely struggles to return the look.

“Aw, great,” He balls his hands together and his gaze keeps shifting like clockwork: on Castiel, briefly, before flitting to the table, to Balthazar, to Castiel again with an expression of guilt, Balthazar, the floor, the table, Castiel, the floor, over and over as he rocks from one foot to another in a strange, awkward dance. “I’m glad to hear it.” He swallows, it looks painful by the way he winces and how long it takes. “Lemme—let me get you guys a drink. Wha’d’ya want?”

“That’s very kind, Dean, but—” Castiel begins to protest, but Balthazar cuts him off.

“A scotch, thanks, neat. We need to celebrate. For you, Castiel?”

He turns to the writer and raises a cool, inquisitive eyebrow, which Castiel glares at, much to Balthazar’s amusement.

“What’re you guys celebrating?” Dean asks nervously, with an uncomfortable smile that puts Castiel ill-at-ease.

“Cassie and I have just struck up a bargain,” Balthazar beams. “He’s just persuaded me of something I’d been a little unsure of.”

“Oh,” Dean says, as if this even _vaguely_ answers his question. “Well—that’s great, I guess. What will you be having, Cassi—” He blinks miserably and corrects himself, shifting uneasily on his feet again, “Cas, sorry,” He shakes his head. “Cas.” He says again, and shifts once more, in such a way that Castiel begins to wonder whether Dean is, once again, drunk. “A drink? What—”

“Cas’ll have a bourbon,” Balthazar answers confidently, then, at the look his friend gives him, “what? We’re _celebrating.”_

Castiel sighs, but decides not to argue this one out.

“Thanks, Dean,” He looks up at the green-eyed man who still stands, stiffly, beside their table. “Won’t you join us?”

“Oh,” Dean winces, “I wouldn’t want to intrude—”

“It wouldn’t be an intrusion,” Castiel answers quickly, sincerely.

“Get yourself a drink,” Balthazar says, sitting forward. Castiel is quietly frustrated that Balthazar is encouraging him to drink _more,_ but guesses that arguing this over with his friend would be unproductive, too. “Come and join us.”

Dean thanks them awkwardly and leaves.

Castiel sighs again.

“I’ll go and help him with the drinks,” He pushes himself up off the chair and stands, stretching out after remaining seated for so long. “Please don’t be an ass,” He says, and he walks past Balthazar on his way to the bar.

“You’re asking a fish not to swim there, Cassie,” Balthazar calls after him. Castiel smiles despite himself, and is still wearing the expression when he makes his way over to the bar.

Dean glances behind him and catches the expression on Castiel’s face.

“What’s up with you?” He asks.

“Something Balthazar said.”

“Oh.” Dean looks over Castiel’s shoulder and presses his lips together. “You two… known each other long?”

“Um,” Castiel squints, genuinely trying to remember. He rests his forearms on the bar’s surface. “Not very long—I met him while I was getting my doctorate, so…”

“Four years, then?” Dean asks. “Three?”

“Yes,” Castiel nods thoughtfully. “He’s a director and producer. He’s been trying to persuade me to let him make a movie of my books for years, now. I think I’m gonna have to give in, after tonight.”

Dean looks troubled.

“So, he’s pretty successful, I guess?”

Jo brings over their drinks and sets them down in front of the pair. Dean picks up Balthazar’s and his own.

“I suppose,” Castiel shrugs. “Honestly, from what I can tell, he’s pretty rich, but…”

Dean stares at the floor as he makes his way back over to Balthazar.

“That’s cool… good for him, I guess. Has he directed anything I’d know?”

“Actually,” Castiel smiles, thinking that this is a pretty good segue into probing the subject of how Dean would feel about writing and singing the music for Balthazar’s next movie, “he—”

“Oh, Dean, darling, thank you,” Balthazar beams, getting up to take his drink from Dean. Castiel squints, frowning. Is he—is Balthazar flirting with Dean?

Well, Castiel nearly laughs, he is _so_ barking up the wrong tree, there. And Castiel should know, after nine years of heartbreak, and fourteen years preceding that of hopeless desperation.

“No problem,” Dean sits down, looking distracted. “So, Balthazar… Cas says you direct movies?”

“Yes,” Balthazar smiles winningly. “And produce them.”

Castiel takes his seat again.

“You—” Dean coughs once, and takes a generous sip of his drink, “you enjoy that?” He asks, obviously awkward. Balthazar smiles.

“Oh, absolutely,” He confirms. “I’ve told Castiel, if he started working in my field, he could be making at least twice what he earns now, but,” Balthazar shrugs with exaggerated remorse, “the man says he just likes teaching, too much.”

“Well,” Dean’s lips twitch upwards, “I think he’s pretty good at what he does. I reckon we need more lecturers who honestly love their subjects, and their students.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Balthazar sighs.

“You working on anything at the moment?”

“As a matter of fact,” The director smiles winningly, “I’m just starting on a new one. It’s a coming of age one, you know, those stiflingly pretentious but inevitable money-makers that teenagers searching for meaning can’t help but all flock to.”

“You really feel so down on it?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“It’s more a defense mechanism,” Balthazar shrugs, surprisingly honestly. “I _am_ hoping it’ll turn out well, but we’ve hit quite a few stumbling blocks along the way. Some of those have been clearing up though,” He smiles, and winks over to Castiel, which Dean notices with a furrowed brow, “which is a pleasant thought. We’re also just working on the final editions of another movie, which will be released in February.”

“What kind of movie?” Dean asks.

“Romance.”

“Nice—for Valentine’s day, I guess?”

“Around then,” Balthazar smiles. “But it’s just a straight romance. More drama than rom-com.”

“Who’s gonna be in it?”

“Uh,” Balthazar, perhaps more for dramatic effect than actual thoughtfulness, looks down at his hands and examines his fingernails as he thinks, “not many big names. Some actors new to the scene—Frankie Corrigan, Charlotte Barry, Brent Valenti.”

“Brent Valenti?” Dean repeats, raising his eyebrows suddenly.

Balthazar feigns surprise, looking up from the nails he was still examining.

“Oh, you’ve heard of him?”

“The porn star?” Dean asks, disbelieving, then obviously realises what he has said, and flushes deeply.

Balthazar smirks. Something about the expression makes Castiel uncomfortable. Balthazar has always had the look of a man who knows more than he would ever let on, and would _always_ use his knowledge to his own advantage—there is something in the thick brow, the permanent charm and charisma, the sarcasm and calculatedly scruffy facial hair that suggests a man too intelligent and cunning for anybody else’s good.

“The porn star,” He confirms. “He also has a penchant for acting, it seems.” He takes a long sip of his drink. Dean looks away, swallowing, face red. He’s obviously uncomfortable with the look Balthazar is giving him, perhaps because he is worried the director is flirting with him—which, Castiel realises, Balthazar may _well_ be.

“I’ve, uh,” Dean fumbles, getting up, “I’ve gotta sing a couple more songs. Set’s not technically over, yet, so…” He picks up his drink and downs the last of it hastily, hardly wincing. Castiel watches, troubled.

“Well, come back to us, when you’re done,” Balthazar smiles. Castiel nods in return of Dean’s wave to him.

“Good luck,” He wishes, “though I’m sure you don’t need it.”

Dean clearly fakes his smile in response, and distractedly makes his way up to the stage again.

“So,” Balthazar turns back to Castiel “Dean,” He grins, brilliantly.

“What about him?” Castiel frowns.

“Dean,” Balthazar repeats, smile growing impossibly wider.

“Dean…?”

“You really don’t see it?” Balthazar asks, feigning incredulity.

“Obviously not,” Castiel frowns, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, “or I wouldn’t be asking. See what? What are you talking about?”

“But you knew him since _high school,”_ Balthazar shakes his head in mournful exasperation. “And you really can’t tell?”

“Kindergarten,” Castiel corrects. “And tell what?”

“Dean,” Balthazar begins, both matter-of-fact and utterly dramatic, “is so totally, and obviously, and outrageously gay.”

Castiel nearly snorts out his drink.

Dean has adjusted the mic and speaks into it, now, but Castiel murmurs to Balthazar instead of listening.

“I hate to tell you this, Balthazar,” He can’t help but feel amused, “but you literally couldn’t be any more wrong.”

“How do you know?” Balthazar asks, not even defensive. He smirks over at his friend as he takes another sip of his drink.

“Dean is straight,” Castiel replies, very much unamused. He _knows_ Dean is straight.

“How do you know?” Balthazar repeats, chuckling.

“I’ve known him all his life, near enough—”

 _“Have_ you?” Balthazar asks, with a thoughtful frown. _“I_ thought you hadn’t spoken to him for nine years—”

“Shut up, Balthazar,” Castiel clenches his fist. “Dean is straight.”

“How do you know?” Balthazar asks again.

“He’s had girlfriends, and he was _definitely_ attracted to them.”

“So?” Balthazar shrugs. “He’s gay in the umbrella sense of the word, then. Maybe he’s bi, maybe he’s pan, maybe he just calls himself queer, but if we’re using gay for any man attracted to other men, if we’re using it as an umbrella term, then Dean is that gayest man I think I’ve ever met. Dean is _so gay.”_

“What proof do you have?” Castiel asks, rolling his eyes and knowing that _he,_ at least, has the best evidence for Dean’s straightness out of anyone on this earth.

Dean begins singing a new song, and Castiel realises what it is, _La Vie En Rose,_ in French.

Balthazar smirks so widely it’s almost ugly.

“This, for one thing,” He gestures to the stage and to Dean. “This is the gayest song I’ve ever heard. And he’s singing it in _French._ The lyrics might as well be _I like to get boned—”_

“Balthazar!” Castiel hisses, face growing hot. “Stop it!” His friend only leers again, Castiel rolls his eyes. “Dean is straight,” He reiterates, “and I know because he’s told me, a _lot_ of times.”

And every time it broke his heart. One time in particular, though. There is one time that Dean told Castiel he was straight, that just about killed Castiel, destroyed him, forever.

Dean’s beautiful rough voice, in _French,_ no less, and his delicate playing of the guitar, and the stillness of The Roadhouse, and thinking of the moment Castiel’s heart was shattered beyond repair and beyond ever being able to love like that, again, are slowly eating away at his already charred soul. He can feel his voice cracking in his throat before he even speaks.

“Oh, yes, and people _always_ tell the truth about their sexuality,” Balthazar rolls his eyes, droll.

“He did, that time!” Castiel barks out. “He’s straight, he _has_ to be!”

Castiel’s heart begins to break.

But what if Dean isn’t? What if Dean is queer, too, and just never loved _Castiel?_

“He _has_ to be?” Balthazar repeats, incredulous. “Listen, Cassie, my gaydar is better than anyone’s. You _know_ this—”

“He’s told me he’s straight,” Castiel’s jaw clenches, his digs his nails into the palm of his hand. “He’s told me. He wouldn’t lie. He’d have no reason to be ashamed, if he wasn’t, seeing as we talked frankly about _my_ sexuality, all the time. If he were queer, I of all people would know it.”

And it’s true. But maybe, once upon a time, Castiel had hoped beyond all hope that Dean wasn’t straight. And maybe, that hope beyond all hope had translated itself into a belief that Dean _wasn’t_ straight, that he was, in fact, in the umbrella sense of the term, gay.

And that hope had been dashed, all too painfully, once. Once is enough. Castiel won’t allow himself to hope again.

“Well, if you say so,” Balthazar sits back, _finally_ accepting defeat, as Dean begins to sing _La Vie En Rose_ in English, now. “I suppose you’d know better than anyone, him being your best friend and all. Why would either of you keep secrets from each other. Why would either of you lie?”

“Exactly,” Castiel grumbles back. “We didn't.”

He _needs_ Dean to be straight, more than he wants Dean to be straight. He glances over to the green eyed man playing the guitar, and his heart curls both in further heartbreak and vindictive triumph as he catches Dean winking over to a pretty female member of the crowd, wearing deep red lipstick with long dark hair.

“See?” Castiel gestures to the interaction as the woman blushes, beaming. “Straight as an arrow. And those are his words, by the way.”

“Straight as an arrow,” Balthazar repeats, still smiling, though this time it is more of a thoughtful smile than an obnoxious one, and nodding slowly. “I don’t know how I got so it mixed up.”

“Well, me neither,” Castiel growls out, sinking down into his seat, unsure why he felt so affronted during this interaction with the director.

“Of course,” Balthazar says, as though suddenly and distractedly realising something, just as Dean finishes his song to rapturous applause, and gives an introduction to his next one, “there’s one thing Dean’s straightness _doesn’t_ explain,” He frowns, feigning something both troubled and thoughtful in his expression.

“What?” Castiel asks, turning back to his friend and sighing. Honestly, he thought they’d _dropped_ this.

“He knew the name Bent Valenti,” Balthazar shrugs, as though it doesn’t really matter.

“Who?” Castiel asks with a frown.

“One of the guys in my film. One of my actors,” Balthazar finishes his drink and begins gathering up his things.

“And your point is?” Castiel frowns, squinting at his friend.

“Well, I only mention it, because he’s a porn star,” The director goes on, as though this is hardly important.

“Oh, gross, Balthazar,” Castiel wrinkles his nose, “and you shouldn’t be surprised that Dean watches porn enough to know the names of people in it. If you grew up with him, you wouldn’t be surprised. _Always_ making dirty jokes.”

Balthazar has stood up. Castiel turns back to look at Dean.

“I’m off,” He says, brusquely. “I’ve got a lot to sort out, this week, and not enough time to socialise beyond business matters. Thanks for introducing me to Dean. I really do think he’ll be perfect, and you know I wouldn’t say that unless I meant it. So thank you. I’ll get in contact with him.”

“No problem,” Castiel murmurs, still watching Dean.

“I suppose you must really care for him, if you want him to make it this badly.”

“He’s a good friend,” Castiel says, licking his lips as he watches Dean ramble on about how the song he’s about to play is a song that has always reminded him of his youth and particular characters from it.

“Well,” Balthazar smirks, “you’re a good friend, to be doing this, for him.”

He makes his way to leave, then stops short, and turns around.

“Oh!” He exclaims.

“What?” Castiel nearly groans out in exasperation.

“It’s just that, now I think of it—Brent Valenti is only in one kind of porn.”

“Stop talking about porn, you sound like a total creep—”

“ _Gay_ porn,” Balthazar nods, matter-of-factly, interrupting Castiel. “And like, the gayest of gay porn. Male orgies, boss and secretary scenes, daddy kinks, all sorts of fun. Not that that ought to change anything in our _straight or gay?_ debate. Like I said, if you’re sure he’s straight, then he must be. You have known him for _so long,_ after all.” And he turns around again, and begins to make his way out. “But _gay porn,”_ Balthazar says to himself, quite loudly, so that Castiel can hear it, and several other members of the crowd turn around, frowning.

Castiel stares at the retreating back of the director, who doesn’t so much as wave goodbye, dumbfounded.

Dean begins playing _Stand by Me._

Castiel turns back to him, head spinning.

 


	38. It Wasn’t Me it Was You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO SORRY this took so long. I've been having a major shitstorm at uni and my mum just moved home which sucked & was sad so I had to head down to London to help her out. Anyway. Cambridge is fun but kinda balancing fun with being, like, fucking chaotic. I'm in a play though! And auditioned for another today but it went kinda shit. Anyway, I thought I'd just update you all on how it's going.
> 
> This was a sad chapter to write and I hope will be a sad chapter to read and you'll be able to figure out everyone's motivations knowing what you know as an audience, yet also understand why the characters act as they do only knowing what THEY know. That'll make sense. It's a huge shitstorm of a chapter and is VERY long but I didn't want to break it up. I hope it makes up for the slow update! I also hope it answers a lot of your questions about 'what EXACTLY happened those nine years ago?' Well. You're about to find out. Enjoy. (Rather, I hope you do).
> 
> I really don't feel as though I did the moment justice while writing it, so I hope you forgive me that sin.

**Monday, June 9th 2007**

 

“So,” Dean grins, both hands on the wheel of the Impala, “camping next week? You’re up for it?”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel answers, unable to suppress his beam at the thought. “I can’t wait.”

“‘Cause I get it if you feel like you’re spending too much time with me—”

“You’re my best friend—”

“And I get it if you want to be spending more time with Samandriel, what with you leaving in two weeks, and him being your boyfriend—”

“You’re my _best friend,_ Dean,” Castiel repeats.

Dean glances over to him, eyebrows slanting upward sadly, happily, disbelievingly. It’s night, although it doesn’t look much like it, now; the sun has yet to set. They drive to Lisa’s, who is hosting a post-graduation party while her parents are out of town. Streetlights flash past the window, the air is surprisingly cold, but still heavy, and something in the atmosphere promises bad weather ahead. The setting sun paints the sky in stripes of yellow and orange and gold, and further in, pink and coral. It makes Dean’s features swim beautifully amid a haze of yellow, nostalgic light.

“But Samandriel—” Dean attempts to reason, but Castiel cuts him off.

“Best friend,” He repeats. _“You._ Not anyone else. And unless you’re getting sick of _me—”_

“I could never—” Dean shakes his head quickly.

“Then camping, next week, will be awesome,” Castiel finishes. Dean smiles, obviously reassured.

“And you’re still okay with me coming to say goodbye to you, at the airport?”

“Dean,” Castiel laughs, “Who else, in the whole world, could I _possibly_ want there?”

Dean smiles, but his lips twitch in such a way, that it seems insincere. Aiding this, in the next instant, Dean is frowning.

“But maybe—I don’t know—you might want that time to be special—” He reasons, and, Castiel’s heart is abraded by the sound, Dean’s voice cracks in his throat, tearing and coming out limp and small and childish. “You—you might want to spend it with just you and your dad. Or just you and your dad, and Samandriel. He’s your _boyfriend,_ and I’m just—”

“Dean,” Castiel says firmly, noting with a strange kind of melancholy the tears welling at Dean’s eyes, “you’re my _best_ friend. I—obviously I’m gonna spend time with my dad at the airport, to say goodbye—he’s my _dad._ But Samandriel… and don’t tell him this, obviously… but if I had to choose between having you with me, before I flew to England, and him…” He laughs softly through his nose and looks down, licking his lips a moment and choosing his next words carefully. He can feel the heavy press of Dean’s gaze on the side of his face all the while, but strangely, doesn’t feel that there is an increased pressure to say the right thing, as a result of it. Dean is—scared? Sad, to see Castiel go? Well. Castiel feels honoured, because of it, and nothing more than unworthy of any of Dean’s affection. “There’s no competition,” He says, looking up at Dean. “No competition,” He repeats. Dean’s jaw clenches, Castiel watches as he swallows thickly.

“What do you mean by that?” Dean asks. His words fall heavily between the pair of them, and Castiel cannot answer them honestly, and in doing so, pick them up. They imply too much, and Castiel’s answer will inevitably mean too little, when it tumbles clumsily and insincerely from his lips, and once again Castiel is forced to lie—or at least, only speak in half-truths—to the boy of whom he believes, if soulmates existed, he would be bound to infinitely.

“I mean that you mean more to me,” Castiel answers, looking out the window to avoid the serious press of Dean’s gaze, “than a guy I’ve been dating for a handful of months. Are you surprised?”

Dean shrugs. His eyes return to the road.

“A little,” He replies, as though this is half meant to be inflammatory, and half meant to be simply sincere.

“Oh,” Castiel replies. His voice cracks at his throat, and Dean’s answer hurts him unexpectedly. “Why?” He asks. “You shouldn’t be.”

“Shouldn’t be?” Dean repeats, finally allowed to give Castiel more focus as they hit traffic.

“No,” Castiel answers. “I’ve said. I’ve known you for _years._ What’s surprising about you meaning so much to me?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

There is a stillness in the car, and when the traffic moves forward, Dean does so, hesitantly, as though not wanting to reach their destination.

“How much?” He asks, finally.

“What?”

“You said I mean more to you, than…” He trails off. “But how much?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and rummages through Dean’s collection of cassettes.

“You’re asking me to quantify emotional attachment, Dean, which you know I can’t do. I might as well ask, how much do _I_ mean to _you?”_

“Everything,” Dean replies, so surely and quickly and gently that Castiel looks up at him from where he bends down, rummaging in the glove compartment, and hits his head on the bottom of the dashboard.

“Ow,” He rubs at the back of his head, where he can feel a bruise forming, frowning. But Dean doesn’t laugh, like Castiel would expect him to. He only peers at Castiel, all seriousness, obviously waiting for a response. Which reminds Castiel of what it is Dean has just said. His hand falls back down to his side. “What?” He asks.

The look Dean gives him. The look, and Dean’s voice, and the content of Dean’s words, have made Castiel’s heart flutter inside his chest, trembling with disbelief.

Dean shrugs minutely, lips pressed together, and turns back to the road, accelerating as the traffic begins to clear.

Castiel stares at him.

Everything.

Castiel means _everything_ to Dean? Is that what he said?

And is that the answer of a friend, or something more?

Perhaps Dean misspoke. Perhaps Castiel misheard.

“You mean a lot to me, too, Dean,” He replies, still staring at Dean, to which the green eyed boy snorts.

“Right, yeah. Of course. You were gonna put some music on?”

Castiel looks down to the pile of cassettes he’s collected into his lap. He’s too distracted to pay any attention to what he puts in. But then, when the music begins playing, he takes notice.

“Wait,” He frowns, then smiles at the car radio as Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightens, a muscle in the sandy haired boy’s jaw clenching, “this is _my_ music.”

Dean frowns at the stereo, feigning surprise, as the lyrics start up.

_“You're a part time lover and a full time friend…”_

“Uh, is it?” He asks distractedly. “Huh. That’s funny.”

_“I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else, But you.”_

“It’s The Moldy Peaches,” Castiel states.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

_“I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train  
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side”_

“You’ll take my word for it?” Castiel repeats incredulously. “Dean, it’s on _your_ mix tape.”

_“I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else  
But you”_

Dean flushes.

“So, I guess you’ve impacted my music taste, then. Are you surprised? I mean, I _have_ known you for fourteen years.”

“And I’m not forgetting them,” Castiel frowns, “but you’ve never put my stuff on a _cassette_ before.”

 _“Your_ stuff?” Dean repeats. “So I can’t like it, too?”

 _“The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me  
So why can't _ you _forgive me?_  
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else  
But you”

“Well, you’re always bitching about it,” Castiel points out. Dean growls at the word.

“So maybe I thought I’d make a mixtape of it, ‘cause I was gonna miss you, when you go? Why’s everything gotta be—”

But Dean cuts himself off.

Castiel stares at him.

It’s not the first time he’s hoped beyond hope that Dean isn’t straight, and it certainly won’t be the last.

But this time, _this_ time—does Castiel actually have _grounds_ for his hope?

Maybe Dean isn’t straight. Maybe—maybe—

But they’ve arrived.

Dean pulls into Lisa’s driveway—boyfriend privileges, Castiel guesses, and kills the engine. The music cuts off. Castiel stares.

“What?” Dean asks, with a slightly unfriendly frown.

“Uh—I was—” Castiel fumbles for an answer, other than, _I was just wondering, are you_ really _straight? And if not, do you want to get coffee, some time?_ “Camping—”

“What about it?”

“Do you—do you have a camping stove? Or will we just light a fire?”

Dean grins, leaning back.

“So, we have _tonnes_ of supplies—don’t you remember? From when we used to go camping as kids?—But I think it’d also be pretty cool to cook food on a fire. Survival style, you know? So I’ll _bring_ all the stuff—like the little gas cooker, and all that shit—but you’ve gotta promise that at least one of the nights, we just make up a campfire, and cook all our shit on that. Okay?”

Castiel chuckles. His insides are so warm with affection that easily, he could bask in the light of Dean for days.

“Okay,” He answers, nodding.

“I can’t wait,” Dean beams, ear to ear.

“No, me neither,” Castiel agrees.

“Also, is it, like, outrageously cliché of me to want to bring a guitar?”

Castiel bubbles out into laughter.

“Bring a guitar, Dean,” He nods, to which Dean’s beam turns smug.

“Yeah?” He repeats.

“Yeah,” Castiel confirms. “It’ll be nice to have you to serenade me.”

Dean snorts, and shoves Castiel playfully, ruffling at his hair. Castiel would swat him off, normally, but he doesn’t, this time. He treasures the touch and tries not to stare at Dean in total wonderment.

“That’s my job, Cas,” Dean grins, undoing his seatbelt and getting out the car. Castiel does the same. He’s reminded of Charlie’s party, and the strange cocktail of misery it unknowingly caused him.

Maybe tonight will be the beginning of the repair to that damage.

Maybe. Hopefully.

It’s loud, and busy—ridiculously so, already. Castiel frowns at the silhouettes of people in the windows of the house— _all_ the windows of all the rooms. Dean glances over at him.

“Hey, if you wanna bail, we can bail,” Dean reassures. “It’s _huge._ So if you feel like—”

“It’s okay,” Castiel shakes his head, “this is your girlfriend’s party, after all. You kind of _have_ to be there.”

“Yeah, but it looks like she invited the whole school,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I don’t think she’s gonna miss me.”

“I think she would,” Castiel counters, tugging on Dean’s brown, beaten leather jacket and walking up to the front door, “and I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“I’m _always_ in trouble, Cas,” Dean counters with a grin, “it’s why Lisa even went out with me. I’m irresistible.”

“And humble,” Castiel frowns thoughtfully. “Wow, you really _are_ the whole package.”

“Well, when you say it like _that,_ it sounds sarcastic,” Dean chuckles, and pushes open the door. “Also, _who_ is choosing this music?” He wrinkles his nose in distaste at the heavy bass emerging from inside. “Shitty. They’ve got a shitty music taste.”

They make their way down the hall, pushing past kids already drunk, stoned, and possibly both.

“You’re pretentious.”

“You’re gonna study English at Cambridge,” Dean points out. “That’s, like, first place, gold medal levels of pretentious.”

Castiel snorts, glancing away.

“You got me.”

Lisa emerges from the kitchen, beaming at the sight of Dean.

“Hey, good lookin’” He greets, with a winning, casual grin as Lisa pulls him in for a tight hug, arms around his neck and shoulders. Castiel swallows and glances down as Lisa presses a soft kiss to Dean’s lips by way of greeting. Dean smiles smugly, confidently, down at her, and Castiel’s hopes of _maybe he’s not straight_ are, for the millionth time, dashed. When will he learn? “How’s it going?”

“Good, thank you,” Lisa stays wrapped up in the arm Dean slings around her waist. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“What, ‘cause you want me to be around to kick people out by morning?” Dean asks with a grin. “‘Cause that’s not what I expected, when I agreed to become your boyfriend—”

 _“Agreed?”_ Lisa repeats, gasping melodramatically and pretending to be affronted even while she laughs musically.

“Yep,” Dean confirms grimly, “you _begged_ me to date you, and now that I’ve _finally_ said yes—”

Lisa rolls her eyes and hits Dean lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re a jerk,” She comments, but she giggles and presses her lips together in a way that is calculatedly no way near as severe as she, again so calculatedly, is pretending to pretend to be.

“Guilty as charged,” Dean bends down to bump his nose with Lisa’s. Castiel looks away again, and as he does, he spots Samandriel coming down the stairs.

“Castiel!” He shouts excitedly, waving. Castiel waves back, not feeling any way near as enthusiastic as Samandriel, who practically bounces down the staircase to where Dean, Castiel and Lisa stand. “You’re here!” He pulls Castiel in for a surprisingly sudden kiss which is pierced by the taste of spirits already staining Samandriel’s tongue and infused into his breath.

“Hi, Samandriel,” Castiel greets as his boyfriend pulls away, noting, not for the first time, that Dean refuses to look anywhere near his direction when Samandriel shows this kind of affection—or any, for that matter. But now, noting this doesn’t fill him with untold pain—it fills him with untold _hope._

Perhaps, Dean looks away, because he _is_ queer. Perhaps, Dean feels the same way towards Castiel, as Castiel does to Dean. And when Dean looks at Castiel kissing Samandriel, he feels the same as Castiel feels, when Dean kisses Lisa. Could a friendship as complex and knotty and sticky and intimate as theirs _ever_ be just platonic? Surely, Dean must feel something, too—they’ve shared a bed at least once a week for fourteen years, now— _that_ can’t be platonic. Which other guys, that Castiel knows, are that comfortable with their guy friends? Which other guys have nicknames for each other as endearing as Dean and Castiel? Dean calls Castiel _Sunshine._ Dean said Cas was his everything, not fifteen minutes ago… Doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t it have to?

This is, of course, the vein along which the thoughts that were running through Castiel’s head on the night of Charlie’s party, before things crashed and burned so terribly, had taken. But what if Castiel misread that night?

What if Castiel misread that night, and every night and every fight with Dean, since then?

Perhaps, at Charlie’s party, when Castiel kissed Samandriel—

“Cas, are you listening?” Dean raises his eyebrows at his friend, dragging Castiel away from his thoughts. The dark haired boy scarce jumps out of his skin, surprised by his own distractedness, which is ordinarily _Dean’s_ trait, and stares bewilderedly at his friend.

“What?” He asks. Dean rolls his eyes.

But there’s affection in the gesture. And—more affection than there would be, reasonably, for someone who’s just a friend. Maybe?

Castiel is, perhaps, once again grasping at straws. He’d been thinking this way on the night of Charlie’s party; had been thinking and rethinking the entire day, his and Dean’s relationship and whether or not it could be construed as _strictly_ platonic, or perhaps… something more? But that a thing could be more than what it really was had proven to be an awful notion to conceive; Castiel had dressed in clothes he’d hoped Dean would like, had put on a mixtape filled with songs that reminded him of Dean, had been ready to, that night, not only come out to Dean, but tell him how he felt about _Dean_ in particular, and not just guys in general.

And Dean had… shot him down. Before Castiel even broached the subject.

_“Ah… Sorry, Charlie, but I can’t really say he’s my type… Think you know what I mean…”_

“Dude,” Dean laughs, waving his hand in front of Castiel’s face, that he might restore his attention, yet again, “what’s up? What’s wrong with you?”

Castiel presses his lips together and shakes his head, even as the jade of Dean’s eyes sets his head reeling with ideas that maybe, the owner of those eyes might love Castiel, too; that those eyes have rested upon Castiel’s sleeping form and have itched at the desire to be closer; that they watch Castiel at moments when he is turned away and cannot see, in the same way Castiel watches Dean; that their corners crinkle up at the thought of Castiel’s quirks and habits.

“I’m—” Castiel shakes his head, “—sorry—what were you saying? I’m sorry—”

“Hey, that’s okay,” Dean chuckles, but his hand closes around the top of Castiel’s arm, and Castiel stares at it, heart soaring, though utterly bewildered, before glancing up and realising that Samandriel has noted the contact, also. “Jello shots,” Dean leads his friend gently into the kitchen. Samandriel suggested jello shots.”

“Oh…” Castiel murmurs, torn between looking back at Samandriel to check that he doesn’t suspect anything, and staring down at the warm hand, roughened by guitar playing and working on the Impala and building things out of wood and metal in Dean’s glimmers of spare time, wrapped around Castiel’s arm. The ridges of his knuckles, and how perfect they look, especially now that they are so close, especially now that Dean’s fingers touch Castiel. “That’s… that’s a good idea…”

Samandriel’s hand closes around Castiel’s other arm.

“Thanks, Cassie,” He beams winningly, and, after glancing at Dean furtively, presses a kiss to Castiel’s cheek.

Whether by coincidence, or wordless reprimand, Dean’s hand slips off Castiel’s arm.

Dean doesn’t have any shots. The kitchen is bright with white, sterile light, but Castiel prefers it to the darkness and makeshift-party lighting of the rooms at the front of the house. Shot after shot, chased by lime, chased by salt, Lisa and Samandriel giggling and covering their hands with their mouths politely and Castiel wincing at the burn of spirits; until the bright light becomes aggressive and the music from the living room’s heavy bass thrums at Castiel’s core.

Shot after shot, but Dean doesn’t have any. He stares at the tiled floor, freckled with a few red cups and spilled drinks, stares as though deep in thought, as he stands behind Lisa’s chair with his hand curled around the pale wood of its back, tight enough that his hand begins to match its colour, save for the freckles spattered across Dean’s knuckles. Castiel cannot help but mark him, even as he has more and more to drink with Samandriel, even as his surroundings become more difficult to recognise, even as Samandriel’s tipsy hands begin to wander over Castiel’s body, he watches Dean and wanders.

Dean glances up and catches him. Samandriel’s hands are still wandering over Castiel’s torso, but the dark haired boy pays his boyfriend no mind. Dean frowns inquisitively, expression still a little sad.

“You okay, buddy?” Dean asks. There is something in his gaze. Something that’s always been there, Castiel’s sure of it. Or—has it? Has Castiel only just noticed it? Is he wishing it? Is he too drunk, already, to recall Dean’s gaze on any night other than this? Perhaps he imagines the tenderness, wishes it into being, that he sees in the reflections of jade and shattered gold of Dean’s irises. Perhaps he has willed Dean’s affection so hard, that the slope of Dean’s eyebrows conveying so much concern and devotion is utterly figmental, nothing more than an embodiment of the ardent love Castiel feels toward his best friend, and he fears, always will?

But before Castiel can answer Dean, let alone the litany of questions reeling around his head, Samandriel tugs at Castiel’s shoulder.

“Hey, babe,” His fingers wander up to Castiel’s neck, and begin to stroke. Castiel is torn between looking at Dean, with his rose lips and sandy hair, his understatedly feminine features and pretty jawline and loud laugh and bashful grins and terrible music taste, _Dean—_ and Samandriel. It is Dean who turns his face away, lip trembling, hand gripping tighter at Lisa’s chair, and Samandriel, who notices.

Any other month, Castiel would assume this was because his best friend still wasn’t comfortable with being reminded of Castiel’s queerness by Samandriel being so publicly affectionate.

But this isn’t any other month.

This is Castiel’s leaving month.

And how can he leave without telling Dean the truth?

Aside from his blind, wild hope that _perhaps,_ Dean actually _does_ like Castiel back, Castiel _owes_ the truth to Dean. The truth of why he’s been so pissy. The truth of why he was so hurt on the night of Charlie’s party. Even if nothing can ever happen. Even though nothing _will_ ever happen—Castiel has a boyfriend, Castiel is moving to England, Castiel—

“Castiel!” Samandriel tugs again, drunkenly, and a little too hard. Castiel turns, frowning, to see the brown haired boy looking upset. Castiel’s frown fades; guilt overpowers it.

“Sorry—” Castiel murmurs, slipping his fingers in between Samandriel’s and in so doing renewing his sense of emotional duty to the pretty, energetic boy that _he_ agreed to date. “What’s going on?”

“I want to go upstairs—or outside—or somewhere—anywhere, where we can be alone.”

Castiel peers at his boyfriend. Samandriel’s eyebrows slope upward with worry and his hands are tugged out of Castiel’s to twist and fiddle with one another. A bitter cocktail of pity and guilt surge through the dark haired boy, and he stands, taking hold of Samandriel’s hand again.

“Okay,” He nods, “where do you want to go?”

“If you guys want some privacy to talk, my room is free,” Lisa suggests. Castiel glances over at her. Dean doesn’t look at any of them, he sits down heavily and begins to play with Lisa’s hand. His expression is so distant that it could be light-years away.

“Thanks,” Samandriel beams, though it is undeniably insincere, and in the next instant tugs Castiel up, out of his seat, with streamlined motion by the hand, and pulls him out the room.

Castiel looks back.

Dean sits in his chair and looks up at Castiel as he leaves.

Dean doesn’t look. He _stares._

And he _must_ feel the same way.

Insides dissolving in acid, Castiel picks up a bottle of dark liquid someone has abandoned at the bottom of the stairs Samandriel drags him up.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks, as Samandriel turns left on the landing into Lisa’s bedroom, kicking out its few inhabitants and closing the door behind them.

Castiel watches his boyfriend warily, who turns round to face Castiel, leaning back self-consciously against the white door of Lisa’s bedroom.

“If you’re wanting to make out,” Castiel shuffles awkwardly, “I don’t think Lisa’s bedroom would be the best place—”

“I don’t want to make out,” Samandriel rolls his eyes, stepping forward. Castiel sits down worriedly on Lisa’s bed, because he doesn’t know what else to do, trying not to think of all the times Dean and Lisa have shared it.

“Then what—”

“I told Lisa that I wanted to talk to you tonight, and asked if there was someplace private we could do it,” Samandriel makes his way over the thick cream-coloured carpet to Castiel. He stops in front of his boyfriend so that their toes are almost touching. Castiel looks up at him.

“Are you okay?” He asks, worrying at Lisa’s lilac sheets between his fingertips in nervousness. Samandriel glances away, the smile lacing his pretty features tinged with the bitterness of veiled acidity.

“Uh,” Samandriel falters. He swallows, Castiel watches the clench of his right fist and is reminded, of all things and at all times, of Dean. Yet, shocked by the press of tears that brand his boyfriend’s eyes, Castiel gets up, taking hold of Samandriel’s hands and grazing his thumbs over the boy’s knuckles—the knuckles that, while they will never be Dean’s, are still pretty and graceful and worthy of love, in themselves. Why should doubt sear at Castiel’s heart, now, of all times? He and Dean are friends again, he moves to study in England in a matter of weeks, he and Samandriel are resolved to keep dating all through that. It is Castiel who is complicating things, albeit internally, and Castiel who has hurt his boyfriend in the process, by not giving Samandriel the love that he deserves, especially in light of what their relationship has become.

He squeezes the cold hands that rest between his fingers, looking down at them and marking their lines, the exact degrees of their curvature, the tone of peach and tan they match best. He thinks of all the nights he spent, lying awake, beside Samandriel, watching the thin, pale lips twitch in sleep, the fingers curl lightly into pillow, the pale skin stretched over chest swell and decline with breath like the tides on shore. How Castiel _wanted_ to love Samandriel as he loved Dean—and certainly loved Samandriel, in _some_ kind of way. In a way of quiet laughter and soft skin and smiling at excitability. In a way of learning, rather than finding.

Love, at the best of times, a strange and cruel beast that, Castiel believes, takes more than it gives the feeler, took a different path with Samandriel than with Dean.

Samandriel’s eyes sing sadness.

Something in them is an echo of Dean, a broken inverted reflection that, in the image it reflects, is quite charming, can taste flawlessness. Perhaps, in this particular feature, Castiel was driven to kiss the brown haired boy. Mirrored imperfectly and nearly subverted, Samandriel became an imperfect substitute for the perfect and burning beauty of Dean’s love—which, until today, Castiel had felt certain did not exist. But now he isn’t sure.

“Samandriel,” Castiel says softly. He pulls his boyfriend’s right hand to his lips. “Are you okay?”

“I—” Samandriel’s eyes eke timid tears. Castiel pulls him into a tight embrace and inhales his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Samandriel still in his arms, he looks about the minimalist bedroom of Lisa Braeden, such a stark contrast to the tomboyish clutter of Charlie; the room in which, of all places, Castiel had to see his best friend making out with another person.

But no—no. This is cruel. Castiel grounds his thoughts to Samandriel, bravely resting in his arms, Samandriel who is his boyfriend, who obviously adores Castiel and has remained constant and loyal and kind despite all of Castiel’s peculiar idiosyncrasies.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, squeezing then letting go of Samandriel, who swallows, and sits down on the bed. Castiel follows suit.

“I love you,” Samandriel says, looking up at Castiel with glittering eyes. Castiel falters, taken aback. His hand moves timidly to Samandriel’s shoulder.

“I know,” He replies with a frown—and he _does,_ so why does Samandriel say it now like it bears so much meaning? “And I love you. But what’s wrong? You’re _crying,_ Sam—”

“You know?” Samandriel raises his eyebrows at Castiel. Lisa’s blue lampshade washes Samandriel’s face all the shades of sorrow. Castiel feels a little too drunk to be able to handle any of this appropriately, and yet, even now, there is an unspeakable tenderness in his heart for the boy with brown hair and a loud, excitable voice; the first boy Castiel ever kissed.

“Of course I know,” Castiel confirms, squeezing at his boyfriend’s shoulder. “And I love you, too.”

“You mean that?” Samandriel asks. He looks up at Castiel earnestly with the pleading eyes of someone clinging onto a last hope. Castiel cannot for the life of him work out what this hope should be. “You really love me?”

Something in Samandriel’s tone is evasive and fills Castiel with mistrust.

“Of course,” Castiel replies slowly. “Of course…” He frowns uncertainly at his boyfriend. “Why do you ask?”

“You love me,” Samandriel says, taking Castiel’s hand from his shoulder and instead holding it in his own, “and I love you. You know that?”

“Yes.”

“Then stay.”

Two words. They’re spoken candidly enough for Castiel to be confused, albeit momentarily.

“What?”

“Stay,” Samandriel presses. His eyes are stung with more tears, he holds onto Castiel’s hands with uncomfortable force. “I love you—stay with me.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks, eyebrows knotted up, trying, however gently, to tug his hands away from Samandriel—but the brown haired boy’s grasp does not give.

“I mean,” Samandriel clings on all the tighter, a note of urgency slipping fretfully into his voice, “that I want you to stay. _Stay._ Stay in America.”

What is Samandriel asking of him?

“Samandriel,” Castiel tries, attempting once again to pull himself free, but now Samandriel holds on so tightly it actually hurts.

“I _love_ you,” Samandriel raises his voice over Castiel’s confused protestations. “I _love_ you, and you say you love me,” There is acid in his voice, now as well as heartbreak and desperation, his manner is soured by something unspeakable and jealous and melancholic and undeniably possessive. “I love you, and you say you love me,” He repeats, eyes burnt with tears and, now, a cruel kind of covetousness, “so stay in America. What we—we have something _special,_ Cassie—”

“Samandriel,” Castiel finally wrenches himself free, tempted to stand and leave, but not doing so. He nevertheless shuffles minutely away from the brown haired boy, glaring. “What are you asking of me?”

“I’m asking for _loyalty—”_

“That absolutely isn’t what loyalty looks like—”

“It _is!”_ Samandriel pleas. “You’re leaving—”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, pressing a palm to Samandriel’s cheek, “you’re freaking out. Which is okay, that’s fine—and I understand why—but I _am_ going to England. I’m not leaving you—”

“You are—”

“For eight weeks!” Castiel protests. Samandriel closes his eyes and covers Castiel’s hand with his own. “Semesters—terms, they call them—in Cambridge last only two months. Only two months at a time, and then I’ll be back again—”

“But then you’ll be leaving again—and I know what college is like—there’ll be pretty guys there, you’ll see them, you’ll—”

“You think I’d cheat on you?” Castiel asks with an indignant glare. “When have I _ever_ given you reason to—”

“Don’t go, Cassie,” Samandriel pleas again, taking Castiel’s hand down off his face and holding it into his lap. He shuffles forward, closing the gap between them so that their knees are touching. “I love you—I love you—and not in some dumb, teenage way. I mean it—we could be something, you know? We could—”

“If you’re so sure, why do you accuse me of something I’d never do?”

“I never accused you—”

“You said that I’d _do_ it,” Castiel opposes. “You said I’d cheat on you. Why do you doubt me so?”

“You’re leaving me,” Samandriel points out. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Leaving _you?”_ Castiel asks, heatedly. “I’m leaving _everything—_ my family, my home, my friends, my best—” But he stops himself. Not that it appears to be of any use; Samandriel’s features are already soured by bitterness and resentment, and a kind of vindictive triumph, as if he has been waiting for Castiel to bring up Dean all this time.

But Castiel doesn’t rise to it. He holds on tight to Samandriel’s hands.

“This is my dream, Samandriel,” He reasons. “I know you’re sad about me going—and so am I, for what it’s worth. I’ll miss you terribly. You’re kind and bubbly and sweet and, I believe, truly special and one in a million and rare in a way I think very few people are, but—” Castiel swallows, aware himself that he is ready to cry at any instant. “But I’ve dreamt of studying English, in the UK, in Oxford or Cambridge for so long—and it’s such a privilege—”

“Study at Yale, or Harvard,” Samandriel shakes his head. “Take a year out—you can apply to—”

 _“No,_ Samandriel,” Castiel shakes his head defiantly. “You—you don’t understand. And I know I shouldn’t expect you to—” But even now, at the most inappropriate of times, Castiel is thinking of one who _does_ understand, who understood immediately, who would always, _will_ always understand Castiel and his strange and seemingly geometric but actually, fiercely complicated and vividly colourful and suppressed feelings.

Wide eyed, _“You got a scholarship?”,_ total awe, _“you’re going to_ Cambridge”, at Castiel expressing anxiety, doubt, _“You_ can’t _turn it down… This is your_ dream”, at Castiel’s fear, _You have an amazing habit for overthinking things, Cas”,_ in encouragement and total humility and kindness, _“You were always gonna do big things, Cas… My music is nothing. Not on you. Not on what you can do. And not on what the world’s got planned for you—”_ , _“Do it. Go. This is good, it’s a good thing. It hurts for me because—well, you’re my best friend. Of course it’s gonna hurt. But I’m so happy for you, too. So ignore me if I get emotional. I’m proud of you.”_

Dean.

Beloved, Dean.

“I get that it’s big, Castiel,” Samandriel frowns, ripping Castiel away from the tenderness of his thoughts, “but don’t you think this is kind of bigger?”

“This?” Castiel repeats, nonplussed, and still giddy from his thoughts of Dean.

 _“This,”_ Samandriel repeats, frustrated, “ _us._ People grow apart moving to different _states,_ Castiel, what do you think’s gonna happen when you go to another country? Another _continent?”_

“University is three years, in England,” Castiel points out. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about—”

“You’re insensitive,” Samandriel shakes his head, looking away, renewed tears falling to his cheeks. “I always knew it—you’re so—one minute you’re so understanding, so empathetic, and the next—”

“Samandriel,” Castiel reasons, “you’re asking me to give up on something I’ve adored since infancy. Dean can attest to it—” But Samandriel’s expression sours at the mention of this name. “I’ve been writing stories since I _could_ write. I’ve been reading since I could—well, since before I could read, I’d sit and look through books. This is my life—I know you’re sad, and I’m so so sorry, but it’s been my dream since before I really _knew_ you, like I do now—”

Samandriel looks up, something fierce and hard and grim set in the lines of his features. He doesn’t look nearly so pretty now, cheeks wet, eyes red, features firm and unforgiving.

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t go.”

And this is it. This is where Samandriel goes too far.

Castiel rises, pulling himself away from his boyfriend.

“I’ve had enough,” He shakes his head. “You know that isn’t true. _Fuck_ you, for being so manipulative—”

“Manipulative?!” Samandriel repeats, getting up after Castiel.

“What do _you_ call it?” Castiel glares.

“Fine,” Samandriel swallows, manner becoming suddenly proud. “If you go, I’ll break up with you. I can’t handle whatever—-whatever you being in England would involve. So if you leave, I leave. I think that’s fair—”

“—I really don’t—”

“—And if you stay,” Samandriel speaks over Castiel, holding his head high and meeting Castiel’s gaze with a new kind of fierceness, “then everything will be fine. We can stay together. No breaking up. We can see where this goes, and I really _do_ think it’ll go somewhere, Castiel.”

“Oh, that’s wonderfully charitable of you,” Castiel rolls his eyes, “but I’m going to have to decline.”

“You never loved me!”

Castiel has had enough. He’s surprised by his own tears. He shakes his head and answers hollowly,

“I’ve lost a lot of things because of you, Samandriel. I’m not about to lose something else.”

He steps toward the door.

“If you walk out this room, we’re fin—”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, wiping his eyes with slightly drunken clumsiness, “we’re finished _now._ Me leaving the room has nothing to do with it.”

Samandriel stares.

Then he sits down, as if in slow motion, back onto the now-ruffled bed.

Castiel leaves, not closing the door after him. Glancing back only once, he sees Samandriel’s hands clasped together as the boy sits, crying, with his head bowed to the floor.

And Castiel’s heart is bruised with the surprise of its own breaking.

He practically crashes into Dean at the top of the stairs.

“Buddy,” Dean holds onto Castiel’s hands, to stop him losing balance, marking Castiel’s tears with distress. “Are you okay? What’s happened?”

Castiel has buried his face in Dean’s neck without thinking, arms wrapping around his best friend with all the force in the world.

Dean falters, but hugs back.

And it’s the only thing in world that could make Castiel feel anything resembling whole, at this time.

He hopes he has Dean present for every heartbreak. Every trial and sadness in life. He wants—he needs Dean there. Nobody else in the world could possibly compare. Certainly not Samandriel, now, and not Charlie, not Bela, not Sam nor Isaac, or Gabriel or Michael or even Jimmy.

Dean. Dean. Dean. To the thumping of his broken heart, it rings, like a bell or a drum or something more primal even yet than these. Dean, Dean, Dean, always Dean. It is—was—will always be Dean.

“You wanna go home?” Dean asks, and understands, it would seem, just like that—at the sight of brokenhearted Castiel and brokenhearted Samandriel down the corridor, Dean knows, and knows what Castiel needs.

“You should stay—” Castiel protests, shaking his head and pulling away slightly, but only to his wrists, because Dean holds on. “You should stay with your girlfriend—I can make my own way—”

“Lisa will get it,” Dean shakes his head. “She’ll get it,” He repeats. He squeezes Castiel’s arms. “And you’re way more important than some dumb party.”

Castiel hugs Dean again, pressing his face into Dean’s shoulder.

“Thank—I—Dean—you—”

But he can’t finish his sentence.

“I know,” Dean replies, and squeezes tight. He pulls away, leading Castiel down the stairs, holding onto Castiel’s hand—the dark haired boy’s head is spinning at the touch even if his heart is raw with, of all things, a strange sense of betrayal at Samandriel and everything that has just passed between them.

Downstairs, in the swarm of music and people, Dean seeks out Lisa, still holding on to Cas’s hand. It’s when he finds her that he lets go.

“Babe,” Dean draws close to Lisa and her sheet of long black hair, grazing the loose tendrils which fall onto her forehead and cheeks back with his thumb. Castiel looks away, throat constricting: he’d almost forgotten about Lisa, about how obviously in love with her Dean is; the tenderness that swims across his eyes when he touches her, is near her, as he is now. “I’ve gotta go,” His palm cups Lisa’s cheek, and she leans into it, smiling the serene smile of a teen girl slightly drunken, whose boyfriend is showing her all the affection any person could wish themselves. “Cas is—” Dean glances back at Castiel, and his hand slips off Lisa’s cheek for a moment, Dean’s forehead twisted up in that familiar, familial manner of concern, mouth open. No. Of course Dean doesn’t love Castiel. It was stupid; foolishness, to hope so. “Well,” Dean frowns, still looking at Castiel. Then he turns back to Lisa. His hand slips back into its neat place on Lisa’s cheek. “He needs to go home.”

Lisa smiles sadly.

“I get it,” She nods. She goes up onto her tiptoes and kisses Dean on the lips—and Dean, Castiel nearly wretches, kisses Lisa like it’s the last time he’s going to get a chance to do so—to the extent that she hums happily against his mouth and his arms draw around her so tight it’s as though he wants her body to become a part of his, and vice versa.

Dean pulls apart, looking sad to do so. Lisa gazes up at him in an expression of confused wonder.

“Thanks, babe,” Dean squeezes Lisa. “I’ll see you around.”

“Tomorrow?” Lisa asks. “Will you come over?”

Dean is already making his way out, he glances back fleetingly, looking guilty.

“I’ll call you,” He promises. “We’ll figure something out.”

And Castiel follows after him, waving goodbye to Lisa.

“Goodbye, Castiel!” She calls at his receding back. “I hope you feel better!”

Castiel doubts he will.

But then Dean has taken hold of his hand again, and leads him in a winding path down the hall of Lisa’s home, through drunken dancing teens who bump into Castiel and stumble and slur out sorries, Castiel blinking blearily and drawing a steadying breath. Loving Dean is an old feeling. He should be used to it. He should be over it. But one touch, one comment about how Dean is going to miss him, and Castiel is off again, loving and longing and hurting for Dean as though all the universe is subsumed by the boy with gently scintillating green eyes.

Dean opens the front door, to where their classmates have spilled out onto Lisa’s—or, rather, Lisa’s parent’s—front lawn, sitting down, passed out, making out, looking up at the sky.

“You’re sure you’re okay with—”

“Dude,” Dean cuts Castiel off, squeezing Castiel’s hand. “Of course I’m okay with it. I said at the beginning of the night, didn’t I? And I haven’t had anything to drink, and you _definitely_ have,” A squeeze at Castiel’s hand, “so I’m gonna make sure you actually make it home, and drive you there. How does that sound?” The dark haired boy looks down to where their skin meets. His is darker than Dean’s, even in this light. It’s not even remotely unclear where Dean’s skin ends and Castiel’s begins. Dean’s glitters with freckles and tiny imperfections, even now. He works too hard on his car, plays too much guitar; it shows from the hardened tips of his fingers to the chipped shape of his knuckles.

But it’s perfect, and he’s perfect, and Castiel has never doubted this for a moment, even when he has been furious and miserable with Dean. And he knows where Dean’s skin ends and Castiel’s begins, and he never wants the place where they meet to fall apart.

But it will. And it does.

“Thank you…” Castiel murmurs, looking down, as Dean lets his hand fall and makes his way to the Impala. “It—you’re so kind, Dean—”

Dean chuckles, opening Castiel’s door for him.

“I think you’re just a little bit drunk.”

Castiel shakes his head but climbs in. Dean goes over to the driver’s side and does the same, closing his door and starting the engine.

The music they had been listening to when they arrived starts up, and Dean reddens in the light flooding onto the lawn from Lisa’s house.

The clumsy, charming guitar and vocals, the sincerity, the darkness—Castiel, more than ever, aches to kiss Dean now, of all moments, with his heart broken but not quite _broken;_ with Dean, whose soul shimmers brighter than the lights of the party or the stars above their heads, outside the windows of the quietly intimate car.

Dean peers at Castiel, cheeks still pink.

Does he—could he?

“So what’s up?”

Castiel blinks, confused.

“What?”

Dean sighs.

“Should I drive?” He asks. “Or do you want to talk about it?”

Castiel is still nonplussed.

“Talk about what?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Guess I’ll drive then.”

He pulls out of the driveway.

Streetlights pulse past the window and match Castiel’s uncertain heartbeat.

Silence.

Music.

The _music._

Dean _must_ care—he’s made this for _Castiel,_ to remind him of Castiel, with music Castiel _actually_ likes—

Another song starts up.

“You put all _my_ music on this,” Castiel comments, turning to Dean with misty eyes. Dean notes them, lips twitching a moment, tempted at mirth, but something in his features remains soft, softened with love? Castiel prays, _prays_ that this is the case. “Why is that?”

_Let’s say sunshine for everyone  
But as far as I can remember_

The song is nostalgic and oscillates in a way that is both astrological and, if Castiel is honest, mawkish, but nothing could taste more appropriate than this when Castiel, caught between fluttering sadness and a desperate, crunching longing, looks at his best friend in the driver’s seat of the car, who is totally unaware of just how much Castiel loves him.

Castiel loves him.

He _loves_ him.

He should tell him.

He could touch it in the air, Castiel loves Dean so much.

_We’ve been migratory animals  
Living under changing weather_

Dean glances at him and rolls his eyes.

“Because I’m gonna miss you, man,” He answers, longsuffering, but with a flavour of affection in his tone. The pale moon is drowned in inky night above their head. The streetlights beat at the windscreen. “I’ve said, haven’t I?”

_Someday we will foresee obstacles  
Through the blizzard, through the blizzard_

“But why are you going to miss me?” Castiel asks, totally uncertain and utterly wishing for Dean to answer in the most perfect way imaginable. The shadows of suburban houses drift past their windows.

_Today we will sell our uniform  
And leave together, live together_

Dean laughs, the sound blooming out into the warm night air between them. His hair is darker in this light—almost like Samandriel’s, but softer, sweeter, even now more like a rich, dark caramel, stuck up at rebellious and awkward angles. Castiel’s heart is raw.

“Because, Cas,” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Why do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel shakes his head. He stares at Dean. “Or, I want to hear you say it.”

Dean’s smile fades. The lights from the houses and the road wash his face orange, in fierce conflict with the white wash of the silvery moon. Dean glances at Castiel with his lips minutely parted, a single line traced between his brows.

“Say it?” Dean repeats.

And the earth around them grinds to a halt. The car, for all that it is worth, has stopped moving in Castiel’s mind; the stars have stopped their shimmering; the moon has stopped its swimming in the sooty, velvety sky; all that remains is Dean, Castiel, the music, and the ether hovering between them.

_Someday we will foresee obstacles  
Through the blizzard, through the blizzard_

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, eyes caught on Dean’s lips, which he licks once, ostensibly nervous. Dean’s gaze flashes away momentarily—at what, Castiel has no idea.

Dean swallows.

The earth has stilled, though the green eyed boy still drives.

_Today we will sell our uniform,  
Leave together, live together_

“What happened tonight?” Dean asks, instead of answering. His voice is quiet. A frown tugs at Castiel’s brows in a short, soft, single jerk. “Did you… Why were you crying? Why was Samandriel crying?”

Castiel exhales so minutely he is only aware of it because of the warm air on his lips. He turns away and looks out at the road.

“It’s a long story…” He murmurs. “I don’t…”

He begins to fumble with his hands.

The Impala drifts soundlessly down the road. Dean’s gaze rests heavily at Castiel’s face.

When Castiel looks back, Dean is frowning, lips pressed together.

_We played hide and seek in waterfalls,  
We were younger, we were younger_

“You don’t want to tell me?”

Castiel’s chest trembles.

“No—not like—” He cuts himself off. The music punctures the stilled, static atmosphere of their conversation. Castiel points at the stereo. “This is _my_ music,” He says again. “You—I never even knew you paid that much attention—”

“That a joke about my disability, Cas?” Dean half jokes, something in the looseness and reluctance of his smile insincere.

“It’s not a disability, Dean,” Castiel answers, eyebrows pinched together, “and no—I just—”

“I’ve known you for how long, exactly, buddy?” Dean asks. “A long time, I’ll gamble. I know _everything_ about you. Everything.”

And there’s that word again.

Everything.

What does it mean?

What does _Dean_ mean?

_We played hide and seek in waterfalls  
We were younger, we were younger_

Castiel stares, swallowing thickly. Dean’s arms begin shaking with how tightly he grips the steering wheel. He stares at the road with a strange, forced attentiveness.

A white and faitly buzzing light has descended on everything.

_Someday we will foresee obstacles  
Through the blizzard, through the blizzard._

Castiel doesn’t understand.

Mists have covered all his senses, silvery, lunar mists that smell faintly of sugar yet also ash.

 _La Vie En Rose_ begins to play, in French. Castiel frowns at the radio again. He doesn’t understand, and is so bewildered he doesn’t realise how close they are to home. Home—a thought which now breaks his heart at the potential for unfamiliarity in it: he cannot begin to expound thought upon how it will be to leave this place, this town, that he has spent so long in. A place, certainly, that broke his heart to move into, but now, with Dean—and since the moment Castiel _met_ Dean—means more to him than language can either convey, or do justice.

The song shifts into English halfway through. Castiel wonders what version this is.

Swallowing as become painful, just as, with the constricting of Castiel’s chest, breathing. He stares at Dean, at the houses around them, at the sky, at Dean’s hands on the wheel, back at Dean.

 _When you kiss me, heaven sighs_  
And though I close my eyes  
I see la vie en rose

 _When you press me to your heart_  
I'm in a world apart  
A world where roses bloom

 _And when you speak, angels, sing from above_  
Everyday words seem  
to turn into love songs

 _Give your heart and soul to me_  
And life will always be  
La vie en rose

Dean pulls up in front of Castiel’s house.

Castiel stares at the boy with green eyes.

Nobody has understood him like Dean Winchester, the boy in the pretty small house across the street. Nobody has been so patient with him, so tolerant of all Castiel’s quirks and anti-socialities. Dean is the lens through which Castiel can see and understand the world—he never talks of it, and avoids even thinking on it, but Dean came into Castiel’s life just after it had seemed almost entirely uprooted… Castiel’s mother had died, had taken herself out of the world for reasons Castiel can hardly bear to think upon and hopes he never has to fully understand; the more religious of their family—Zachariah—had shut the Novak side out completely; Michael was at college and Gabriel was depressed—Jimmy was… Well, Jimmy must have been depressed, too. He uprooted everything and moved a hundred miles south and had no friends in his new city and seemed, for whatever reason, relieved about that. He’d desired a fresh start. And Dean had given both him, and Castiel, just that.

Lunches and playdates and sleepovers and games of baseball, kindergarten and elementary school, middle school, teenage awkwardness and sixteenth birthday parties, building treehouses and complaining about acne and racing through the woods and wrestling and learning to drive together, and now, finally, leaving home.

Dean hears Castiel in his sighs, his cries—Dean has memorised all of Castiel’s quirks and expressions and sorrows just so he can be a better friend to the boy with dark hair. How could Castiel ever begin to repay him? How could he begin to say thanks?

“You really don’t look okay, you know,” Dean says. His eyes are a cocktail of troubled, sad, and sympathetic. And—hopeful?

Castiel’s breath is shallow and strangely brittle.

“Come inside?” He asks. His voice is hoarse.

Dean nods once and kills the engine. They get out at the same time, in the same movements, Castiel uncomfortably conscious of their synchronisation. The Impala’s doors shutting echoes into the still night. Dean looks up at the sky and wrinkles his nose as they walk down the path to Castiel’s front porch.

“Storm’s comin’,” He states, looking uneasy. Castiel lips are tugged upwards.

“You think so?” He asks, looking up, too. “I’m not so sure.”

Dean pauses, halfway down the path, and chuckles.

“Nope,” He shakes his head. “I can feel it.”

“You’re an old man, Dean,” Castiel snorts, surprised by how quickly it is that Dean’s company has improved his mood despite the fact that Castiel’s boyfriend just threatened him with breaking up just because Castiel was going to college.

“Very old,” Dean nods as Castiel climbs the porch steps, tugging out his keys from his right-hand pocket and fumbling with them a moment. “Here,” Dean chuckles, taking the keys from Castiel’s useless, tipsy hands, “let me.”

His fingers graze against Castiel’s and linger, it would seem, for a moment longer than necessary.

And not for the first time in Castiel’s life, he looks at Dean in wonder.

“Thank you…” He murmurs. Dean snorts.

“No problem,” Dean clicks the lock open, looking down at the keys with an affectionate smile.

“Can I have a copy of the mixtape you made?” Castiel asks. Dean pauses, not opening the door, and looks up at him.

“Uh…” Dean falters. “Sure.” His cheeks are red in the pale moonlight. “Sure,” He repeats, nodding. “No problem. It’ll be like a—a going away present,” He smiles. “Not goodbye, though,” His smile broadens.

“Not goodbye,” Castiel repeats, insides warmed by the innocent purity of Dean’s expression. “Never goodbye.”

Dean beams.

“Eight week semesters,” He reminds, “and then you’re back. That’s no time at all.”

Castiel smiles, but this time it is laced with sadness.

If only Samandriel had thought the same.

But no—‘if only’?!—Castiel is, and always has been, in love with Dean, and to pretend otherwise would be cruel. He loved Samandriel in a strange, unexpected and ultimately endeared way, to be sure, by the very end… But Dean is a constant different; Dean is that which has redeemed Castiel’s life, and nothing can distract him from it.

Dean has opened the door and makes his way inside. Castiel follows after him, taking his keys back when Dean offers them and closing the door behind them.

“Upstairs?” Dean asks, in the quiet stillness of Castiel’s home at night. The walls, deceptively, appear a washed blue because of the cold, dark air outside.

“Upstairs,” Castiel confirms, leading the way, his shoulder grazing Dean’s as he passes the other boy. Past the photos, past the paintings, past the mirror with a single cracked line through it caused by none other than Castiel’s very best friend in the whole world.

“Roof?”

“Roof,” Castiel nods again, and, as they make their way into his room, Castiel picking up two bottles from behind his bed before pushing the big window up to open it and clambering out onto the roof of the front porch, Dean is so close that Castiel can feel the heat of his body.

“What’s in the bottles?” Dean asks, gesturing to them as Castiel sits down on the middle of the porch, not with his back resting against the house, and not with his feet dangling over the edge. He tilts his head back, resting on the palms of his hands with his legs crossed beneath him, staring up at the sky.

“Rum,” He answers, “and coke. You want some?”

“Gross,” Dean wrinkles his nose. “You’ve just kept them by your bed?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and takes one of the bottles off Dean, but Dean takes it back.

“Nope,” The green eyed boy shakes his head, “I think you’ve had enough.”

“What?” Castiel replies, indignant.

“You need to tell me what’s wrong,” Dean says, and stares intently at Castiel. The navy sky behind him seems to ripple in the night. The branches of trees that stretch above and around Castiel’s home sway minutely in a cool lick of breeze.

Castiel presses his lips together and glares—but he can’t hold it. He looks down, and Dean sits beside him, a hand slipping onto Castiel’s shoulder. The dark haired boy doesn’t think before leaning into it.

“It’s—stupid,” He murmurs, “and I shouldn’t… I don’t know—now that I think about it, I shouldn’t even be upset… But it hurts, and I don’t know why, and it got me thinking…”

He trails off, and Dean stares at him, obviously perplexed.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” He says, eventually, “but I’m gonna need a little more context than just that.”

Castiel looks down, drawing a steady gush of cold air into his lungs. It tastes faintly of the dew that promises to be lining the leaves and grass. The way Dean looks at him—it’s not the way Dean looks, it’s the way Dean looks _at_ him—it undoes Castiel completely. He’s crying before he even realises it.

“Cas, woah,” Dean’s hands move to cup at Castiel’s face, and this is—is this? Straight friends don’t do this for each other. Just friends don’t do this. Castiel is certain of it. Or, hopes he is; and loves Dean so much any trace of hope is all the evidence in the world. “Are you okay?” Dean’s voice rings with concern, as does the press of his warm, calloused hands against Castiel’s cheeks. “Please, Cas—”

_Cas._

A nickname that, strangely, has forged so much of Castiel’s identity; and all of it in relation to Dean.

_Cas._

If he plays it just right in his mind, Castiel can hear all the love and tenderness and devotion in the world poured like faintly sugared, molten gold into that one syllable; that one syllable formed because Dean’s infant mouth and missing front teeth couldn’t quite wrap themselves around Cas _tiel._ And Dean wanted to make a friend. And Castiel needed a friend. And Dean was that friend. And Castiel prays Dean will _always_ be that friend, and the _more_ that _‘Cas’_ has always promised, the _more_ that all those tender touches and amused looks and soft smiles and long conversations and words left unsaid have always, with all their being, promised.

“I’m,” Castiel touches Dean’s hand, watches attentively as Dean falters, confused, eyes widening imperceptibly, “I’m fine—I—sorry,” He shakes his head, but then Dean clasps Castiel’s hands in his own; and, sitting here, on the roof of Castiel’s home at the dead of night with his very best friend in all the gaping universe and with the stars weeping into the sky above their heads, this is where Castiel is sure of it. Dean loves Castiel, too. He must do. He _must_ do.

And Castiel is going to tell Dean how he feels.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Dean shakes his head so softly the movement is hardly there at all. His lips are just parted, and the most perfect shade of rose that it is all Castiel can do to contain himself from leaning forward, closing the gap between them and sealing his mouth to the other boy’s. The way Dean stares at him, Castiel wonders if the green eyed boy, more than anything else right now, _really_ wants him to.

“Samandriel broke up with me,” Castiel says, instead of kissing his best friend and potentially fucking up everything good and unblemished, because he couldn’t tell the difference between platonic concern and romantic involvement.

Dean draws back.

“What?” He asks.

Castiel can practically see the cogs in Dean’s mind turning.

A light turns on in Dean’s house across the road, but Dean doesn’t notice.

“Why?” The green eyed boy asks. His face, not committing to a frown, moves in slow fluid motion in which his mouth twitches wider open, before closing, Dean swallowing thickly. Is he nervous?

“Well,” Castiel amends, “I broke up with him, I suppose, but only at his threatening to break up with me.”

“Why did he threaten to break up with you?” Dean asks.

The light from the green house across the street swims through the night air, shining like a light between two oceans and washing the sky around it gray.

Castiel falters. He looks down, and is surprised to see his fingers still tangled with Dean’s. He would move them, play with them, but is concerned that if he does, Dean will realise that they are still touching, too, and pull away. And the last thing Castiel wants is Dean pulled away.

“Because,” Castiel begins slowly, “he… I guess… He didn’t want me to go to England…”

Dean frowns, lips pursed together, pressing for Castiel to continue.

“He, uh—he said that if I really loved him, I’d—” Castiel swallows around the lump caught in his throat. “He conflated me leaving for university with me being disloyal, I think,” Castiel nods slowly, more to himself than to Dean, avoiding eye contact with the sandy haired boy as he reasons it out, slowly. But Dean squeezes at Castiel’s hand to regain his attention, and holds on tightly, and— _oh._ Dean is definitely aware of how he and Castiel are touching, right now. And he’s not only instigated it, but is maintaining it.

“That’s bullshit,” Dean glares. “He said—what?—Finish your sentence. He said if you really loved him—? What, that you’d stay?”

Castiel stares at the ground.

“That was the… The essence of it, I suppose…” He answers reluctantly. Dean’s indignance radiates into the night air.

 _“Bullshit!”_ He snaps out. “That’s a total pisstake—Cas, you know that, right? How could he even say that? If he _cared—”_

Castiel gazes back up at Dean.

Dean must love him.

And how could Dean not know, now, after all this time?

Fourteen years.

Castiel has been utterly lost to Dean Winchester for fourteen years. Samandriel never had a chance. _Nobody_ ever had a chance. It was Dean. It was always Dean. Dean, Castiel’s glasses to the world, his friend, companion, family, constant security and understanding, Castiel’s _home._ It’s always been Dean. And no one else.

“He was right,” Castiel says, quietly. Dean looks up at him, frowning heavily.

“No,” Dean shakes his head, “don’t tell yourself that. Don’t let him make you feel that way. _Anyone_ who loved you—they’d let you go—it’s your _dream,_ Cas, and has been since forever. _I_ know that. How could he not know that? And if he did know it, how could he ignore it? It’s your everything—anyone who loved you would want you to go—that’s what you do—if _he_ loved you, really, properly, he’d—”

“He was right,” Castiel says again, louder, and cutting through Dean’s words as though they are mist. Dean looks at him hard, confused and frustrated. “He was right,” Castiel repeats, nodding and looking down, ruminating slowly over his words, and his relationship with Dean, and whether or not he’s misread _everything,_ and Dean sees him nothing more as a kind-of brother.

But that can’t be it.

Castiel swallows, looking up.

“I’d stay for a person I loved, I think,” Castiel says, slowly. “And Samandriel was right, and I think he knew he was right, but I don’t think… I don’t think he wanted to be right.”

Dean stares at Castiel, eyebrows pinched together, the movement behind his eyes timid and measured and pricked with a scent of the curiously withdrawn.

“I don’t understand,” Dean shakes his head, his voice quiet and weathered like old stone.

“I think Samandriel asked me to stay, because he wanted to be wrong about…” Castiel trails off. Who knew confessing love to your best friend could be so tedious? “Wanted to be wrong about—” But the words aren’t coming. They aren’t coming. Why can’t they come? Castiel wants to be a writer, Castiel spends all his time reading, why can’t he say it?

“About what?” Dean asks. He’s closer than he was before.

_How much I love you._

“My commitment to him,” Castiel answers, glancing away for half a second. “He knew—well, obviously—going to Cambridge means a lot to me, and he knew it meant more than him—”

“But when you say it like that,” Dean shakes his head, “it sounds mean. Which it wasn’t. It was never like that—it’s just that this is your _dream,_ and he was your high school boyfriend, and you can’t just _ask_ someone to give up on something that big, that they’ve been planning for so long, just because it hurts _you._ That’s selfishness. He’s selfish—and hell, you’ve even got your plane tickets booked! You were gonna go to Cambridge before you and Samandriel even got together—”

“Dean,” Castiel tries, but Dean is riling himself up, and ignores him. The light from Dean’s house is still on.

“If he really cared about you, he’d want you to go, he’d want you to be happy!” Dean exclaims. “I know _I_ do!”

Castiel is taken aback, but Dean doesn’t seem to realise what he’s said.

“He—he’s demanding so much sacrifice from you, and not sacrificing anything himself! You’re not _engaged_ to him _,_ so what does he expect? You’re eighteen, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Cas, and he’s just… It’s not right—if you love someone, you let them go. They’re a part of you, anyway, right? If you love someone deep enough, then they’re a part of you, of who you are, and them leaving doesn’t change that, even…” Dean trails off and stops, drawing in a trembling breath, eyes sliding back into the present as he regains himself, the runaway train of his thought slowing down. His lips are parted, his eyes glittering. “Even if it hurts…” Dean finishes. “And sometimes it does,” He looks down. “Even if it destroys you.”

Castiel stares at Dean.

Oh, and love doesn’t even do it justice, any more.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly. Dean looks up. His eyes are swimming with a strange amount of hope.

“Cas?”

“Samandriel was right,” Castiel nods, speech thoughtful and deliberate like the treading out of uncertain steps, “and I don’t care anymore, anyway. But he was right, and I’m not angry at him, I don’t think.”

“I don’t get it,” Dean’s eyebrows twitch marginally.

“I’d stay for someone I loved,” Castiel answers. “Someone I _really_ loved.”

Dean pauses.

The cogs behind his eyes continue to turn.

“I don’t—” Dean stammers, but a light flickers in his features, his hands begin to shake. “Cas?”

The darkness around them is enveloping.

“Not Samandriel,” Castiel says again, but Dean shakes his head.

“I don’t think you understand what you’re saying—”

“Really?” Castiel asks with a frown.

This, the roof that they have spent so much precious time together on, alone; it is right that Castiel should tell him here. It is good.

“How could you not know?” Castiel asks, the most earnestly he’s asked anything. He shakes his head. His eyes glitter with tears. Do—Do Dean’s eyes glitter, too?

“Cas…” The other boy says, slowly, hoarsely, something in his gaze moving a mile a minute, something else in it completely static.

Dean. _Dean Winchester._ Love of Castiel’s life.

“I’d—Dean,” Castiel laughs, “how could you not know?” He asks again. “I—everything—the night of Charlie’s party, I—I wanted to impress _you,_ I wanted to dance with _you,_ I wanted—I—not Samandriel,” Castiel draws in a sharp breath. Dean seems to do the same. His expression is worried. “All of it’s for you, Dean, all of it. I—I’d stay for _you,_ Dean—how could you not know that? I love _you—”_

“Cas,” Dean tries, shaking his head. “Don’t say… I don’t…” He, glances out onto the street, back to his house, frowning, and pushes himself away, but Castiel leans forward and closes the gap between them, _finally,_ at long last, in an instant; after fourteen years, after aching, longing, wishing, needing—he kisses Dean. Hand in Dean’s hair, pulling him close, Dean’s soft sandy hair that isn’t as soft as it could be, because, wonderful _idiot_ that Dean is, he only washes it with soap and will condition only when he stays round at Cas’s; other hand on Dean’s back, trailing up, trailing down, Dean’s sweet breath against his, Dean’s lips against his… Chapped and sweet, Dean is chapped and sweet, his lips are chapped and sweet, all of him is chapped and sweet.

And Dean, _Dean,_ they’ve kissed for half a second, only, Dean taught and frightened, suddenly softens and is, _must be,_ kissing back, tentative like Castiel cannot believe, like _Dean_ cannot believe Castiel is kissing him. He’s in _love,_ he’s in love with his best friend and _fuck_ England, Castiel would stay in America for his best friend, and Dean suddenly surges forward, and—

Pushes Castiel away.

Nearly violent.

Dean’s eyes are stung with tears.

His expression has turned sour.

Castiel flinches.

“Dean—”

“What the hell?” Dean manages to gasp out. He still trembles. He begins crying in earnest. “What was that?”

“Dean,” Castiel tries, suddenly terrified.

Oh no.

What’s happening?

“Don’t say my name like that—” Dean shakes his head, moving away from Castiel. “Why did you—what are you doing? Why did you do that? I’m with _Lisa—”_

Castiel tries to swallow, but it doesn’t work.

“I’m sorry,” He shakes his head. “I—I thought—” But he can’t. “Dean, I _love_ you.”

Dean wipes his hands frantically on his jeans, like he’s trying to wipe away Castiel.

“I got that,” Dean shakes his head, apparently unable to look at Castiel, “but you fucking _kissed_ me.”

“I thought—you loved—”

Dean’s gaze snaps back up to Castiel.

“You thought I loved you,” Dean says, lip curling. Castiel shakes his head, bunching his hands worriedly together.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m—” Dean tears his gaze away from Castiel and looks out onto the street, apparently aware of the light on in his house, now. He stares at it. “I’m _straight,_ Cas, how many times have I got to say it?! You _know_ I’m straight—why would you do that?”

Castiel shakes his head, his mind unable to keep up with what is happening, yet somehow racing a thousand light years ahead of the conversation. What’s happening? What’s _going_ to happen?

“I’m sorry,” He says again, “I must’ve—I thought, after everything you’ve been saying tonight—that maybe you felt the same—but I guess I was wrong—”

“You _guess?”_

“I _was_ wrong,” Castiel corrects, feeling small and stupid and incredibly insignificant. His heart trembles and cracks and begins to flake apart. “I really thought, after everything you were saying—”

“How long?” Dean asks. He looks up at Castiel with trembling seriousness. Something new is in his eyes, akin to hunger.

“What?” Castiel asks.

“How long have you felt like this?” Dean asks. “Only tonight, right? It’s only ‘cause you’re sad about Samandriel, and scared of moving—”

“No, it’s not that, Dean,” Castiel frowns and shakes his head.

How could Castiel have misread so terribly? Have misread _everything?_

“No, it must be,” Dean’s lip curls. “You like Samandriel, not me, and now you’re feeling heartbroken—”

“Yes, heartbroken,” Castiel agrees, “but over _you,_ not him—I’ve loved you, since—well,” He swallows, “since we first met, I’m sure of it—”

“Bullshit,” Dean bites.

“No, Dean, I mean it,” Castiel glares. “Maybe I didn’t know what it was, and didn’t know what to call it—but I realised, I think, when we were fourteen, and you were—”

Dean has stood up in disgust. His nose wrinkles faintly, his lips are curled, his eyes are stung with tears.

“This is gross, Cas,” Dean shakes his head. Castiel stands after him, offended.

 _“Gross?”_ He repeats. Dean pushes him away again, apparently uncomfortable with how closely to him Castiel had been standing.

“Yeah, gross,” Dean repeats. “You’re—you’re telling me all this shit, I don’t know what to do with it, how to process it, why’re you telling me now? I don’t get it—”

“You feel the same,” Castiel shakes his head slowly, catching something sad in Dean’s eyes and chasing it like the golden thread that it promises to be. “You must do—even if you didn’t realise how I felt—you know now, and you feel the same,” Castiel shakes his head, but Dean does the same, looking afraid. “You _kissed_ me, you kissed me back, I _felt_ you kiss me back—straight or not—”

 _“You_ kissed _me—”_

“But you—” Castiel fumbles, fumbles like sand more precious than stardust is slipping through his fingertips, “you kissed back—I felt it—I’d do anything for you, Dean, and I know you’d do the same for me—you _do,_ don’t lie, I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it. Why would you lie? Why do you lie, now? I know—I have to know—We’ve shared the same bed, we spend all our time together, you said I was _everything,_ you—”

“God, Cas!” Dean shouts, shoving at Castiel again. Castiel stops, hands shaking. He stares at Dean, terrified for what’s coming next. “It’s wrong,” Dean shakes his head, “you’re _wrong,_ and I could never—I don’t feel that way about you—I couldn’t—” Dean balls his fists. “You’re not—I’m not like that, Castiel, I never—”

“But you—”

“You’re wishing for things that aren’t there, man,” Dean bites out. He glares. “They never will be. You’re wrong.”

Castiel steps forward again, thinking, for a fleeting moment, that if he kisses Dean again, the other boy will admit it, but once more, Dean shoves him back.

“Go to England,” Dean shakes his head, tears streaming onto his cheeks. “Go to England. You—you’re wanted there. You should be there. Not here. And not with me—never with me—never like that.” He swallows. “I’m not sorry. Don’t bring it up again.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s hands shake, he wipes at his tears with his sleeve. “I’m sorry, then—but don’t talk like that—you’re my best friend, and I—I misread, I misread—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean shakes his head, making his way to the edge of the roof to climb down, like he always does. “Nothing matters… None of it… Go to Cambridge… Leave me, leave, leave… Go…”

“Dean—”

“Fuck you!” Dean spits, turning around. Castiel’s heart has broken beyond repair inside his chest, everything is numb. His eyes and nose stream, he can hardly see, but he can make out the hurt and disgust and bitterness and resentment in Dean’s eyes. “It’s not gonna happen, Castiel! It never could! I’m—I’m not—” He looks down at the garden below. Then, without another word, he half-jumps, half clambers down from the roof of the porch roof. And Castiel watches him go, too numb to sob.

But when Dean is inside his own house, and Castiel watches Dean’s curtains close, whipped shut without so much as a look outside, and it begins to rain, thundering down in earnest just like Dean promised it would, Castiel’s sobs rack through his body until the world is nothing but dark, cold water. He shivers alone in the night, drenched, drenched and alone and forgotten, feeling a sorrow he never knew existed.

And the world, cruelly, continues to turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aghh please forgive me I hope you liked it. Happy ending I promise. Please comment!


	39. Stand by Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES.   
> I'm sorry this took so long. My term at Cambridge was pretty chaotic and alongside mental health struggles, massive workload, trying to maintain friendships, I was also writing a column on coping with grief for the university newspaper. (if you'd like to read the articles message me and I'll send you a link!)
> 
> I also have exams in a couple of weeks that I'm literally finding myself unable to write for ???! awful. On the plus side, I pulled two all nighters and managed to write and edit this chapter. It's MASSIVE. Enjoy. It's currently 5.30 AM here in London and I don't know if what I'm typing makes sense any more, but I figured you guys honestly deserved an update especially one of such mammoth proportions (in quantity, hopefully in quality, and in HOLY SHIT ENORMOUS PLOT DEVELOPMENT AND JUST GENERAL CARNAGE.) But I'm not gonna say any more.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy. After my exams are over I'll hopefully get on to some more regular updates. Thanks for sticking with it. Loads of love. x

Chapter 39

 

 _“Little brother!”_ Gabriel’s voice practically slams down the line as he picks up Castiel’s call, such that the younger Novak is forced to hold the phone away from his ear, wincing. He can still make out Gabriel’s words shouted down the other end, with the phone held an arm’s length away from him. _“It’s so nice to actually get a_ call _from you! Like, when was the last time this happened? How come you never_ talk _to me, Cassie? To what do I owe this undeniable and incomparable—”_

Castiel sighs, not taking a seat on, but leaning against, his father’s old armchair, cross-legged on the living room floor. He presses his head back against the item, hard, and closes his eyes. In the hand that doesn’t hold his phone, rests an envelope that, picking it up that morning, Castiel trembled to receive and felt ill to the back of his throat. It has been the cause of a strange sense of disconnectedness for the whole day; a feeling which, in spite of itself and of sense or reason, Castiel has found himself addicted to, stroking his thumb and forefinger over a now beaten, thick, unopened envelope with near reverence—as he does inadvertently now.

Gabriel continues speaking, as Castiel continues thinking.

 _“—I mean, don’t get me wrong, I understand_ why _you’re not a talker, and I appreciate that it takes all sorts to make a world, yadda yadda yadda,_ but _that doesn’t stop me worrying about you, or wanting to talk to you, or—sorry, I’ve actually just had two cups of coffee and a red bull because I’m in the middle of a ten hour—_ ten hour!— _work day and I’m running on about three hours of sleep, so if what I’m saying doesn’t make any sense, don’t worry, it’s cool—well, not_ cool, _I’m hysterical, but—hey!”_ Gabriel exclaims, loud enough that Castiel winces again, _“is something wrong? Why’re you calling me? You wouldn’t call unless something was the matter. Would you?_ Would _you? Is something wrong? What’s going on over there, buddy?”_

“Nothing’s wrong, Gabriel,” Castiel sighs. “I mean…” But he breaks off. “A couple of things are going on, I guess,” He admits, however vaguely, “and I just wanted to talk to you… to get some advice… to hear what you think…”

 _“Sure!”_ Gabriel exclaims, the grin evident in his voice. _“I’d love to help out! What’s up? Girl trouble? Guy trouble? Both?”_

Castiel begins to chuckle.

He presses his head harder back against the old, softened leather of his father’s armchair, beaten and loved enough to dip easily under the touch, little firmness left, only give.

Were he to close his eyes, now, he would be able to see in perfect detail the image of his father, now ingrained into his skull, leaning back into the armchair—so comfortable in the furniture that he was practically buried by it—reading a book, or perhaps asleep with a book resting open on his chest, glasses balanced on the end of his nose, chest rising and falling, slowly, rising and falling…

Castiel bites on his arm to stop the sob that forces its way up his throat, uninvited.

“Um,” He swallows, though it hurts, lips slanting down in the way they can only promise to when one is trying, very hard, not to cry, “I got a letter, today…” He looks down at it and holds on tight, so that the paper folds and bends between his fingers, until his eyes swim with so many tears that he cannot see, and holds on to the letter all the tighter.

_“A letter?”_

“It was… I’ve had one of my colleagues readdress everything that gets sent to me at home in Edinburgh, while I’m in Kansas, and she forwards them, and she forwarded me this one—” Pointlessly, Castiel gestures with the letter, “it must’ve got delayed—or lost—or maybe it just ended up at the bottom of a pile, and she only just noticed it and sent it to me—but—”

_“But?”_

“It’s from—it’s from two weeks before dad died—” Castiel’s throat is uncomfortably tight. Air can hardly escape from it. How could words be expected to do so?

 _“Oh,”_ Gabriel says. All the bumble and buzz and ecstasy from his voice have seeped out, now it is as solemn as the rain at dusk. It would seem that his comedown has hit. _“It’s… I’m guessing it’s from dad, then?”_

“Yeah…” Castiel confirms, unsure of what it is that he is trailing off from. Gabriel’s sudden hurt sings down the line in his silence. A pause in conversation can hold so much more that all the words in the world, and only grief can demonstrate the significance of silence, the weight of that which words cannot render.

After about a minute, Gabriel seems able to articulate himself again.

_“You, uh… have you opened it?”_

Castiel swallows.

“I don’t know that I want to,” He admits. “It’s like… this is my last letter from him, you know?”

_“And opening it is like a last goodbye?”_

“Maybe…” Castiel bunches his hands together in discomfort, unused to sharing his feelings with anyone other than—well, Dean, or his father. But one of them is gone forever, and the other _can’t_ be the one to answer this next question of his. “But that’s not—I also called about something else,”

 _“Oh,”_ Gabriel’s voice falters, out of character. _“What is it?”_

“It’s going to sound a little weird,” Castiel confesses, “but please don’t think anything of it…”

_“Cassie, what’s going on? Do I need to beat anyone up?”_

Castiel actually manages to laugh, at this.

“Absolutely not,” He shakes his head. “And anyone I couldn’t beat up, you wouldn’t stand a chance against, anyway.”

_“What’s that, a dig against my height?”_

“Amongst other things.”

_“You called me to insult me?”_

“No,” Castiel admits. “Sorry. I, uh—”

_“What’s up?”_

“You, um,” Castiel fumbles, exceedingly uncomfortable, “you work in porn, don’t you, Gabriel?”

Gabriel bursts into snickers down the other end of the line.

 _“How did you know, Cassie?!”_ He asks, dramatically. _“God, your innocence has been destroyed! I wanted to tell you some other way_ — _”_

Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“Listen, Gabriel,” He sighs, “you know quite a lot about it then, I guess?”

 _“You_ guess?” Gabriel repeats. _“Cas, I kind of_ have _to. What is this, you’re looking for recommendations? ‘Cause I’ll be honest, I never thought we had that kind of relationship_ — _”_

“Oh shut up, Gabriel,” Castiel groans. “All I mean is, you know about—I don’t know, like, the setup of it?”

_“Now, what the fuck does that mean?”_

“I don’t know, like the way websites are laid out?”

 _“I_ film _porn, Cas, I don’t do the coding of dirty websites—”_

“You’re useless,” Castiel rolls his eyes, making to hang up, but Gabriel stops him.

 _“No, buddy,”_ He laughs again, _“sorry, don’t go. It’s just that this is a kind of surreal conversation for me.”_

“For me, too,” Castiel rolls his eyes.

_“So what is it you want to know? ‘Cause I still don’t really get what you’re driving at. Or, y’know—why you’re driving there, in the first place.”_

“I don’t know,” Castiel frowns, “is it… Would it be normal for someone to know the names of a lot of porn stars?”

 _“Gee, I don’t know, Cas,”_ Gabriel sighs. _“What kind of question is that? You’re_ definitely _asking the wrong person, there—I_ have _to know their names, I work_ _with them!”_

“But would it be weird for someone to hear a name and know—”

 _“Nah, not weird,”_ Gabriel answers. _“Like, I don’t know, it’s the same as actors and actresses. Some people just have a head for names. What’s this for? Are you writing a story about porn stars? Doing some background research?”_

“No,” Castiel answers shortly. And then, “But what about—I don’t know, would there be any way for, say, a lesbian to know the names of male porn stars, even if she didn’t watch any of that kind of porn?”

 _“You’re writing a book about_ lesbians?” Gabriel asks. _“Well, shit, I might just read it_ — _”_

“You’re gross.”

_“I literally direct pornos. You’re surprised?”_

“Well, sometimes you try to make out like it’s at least _some_ kind of art form,” Castiel points out. “I think I appreciate it slightly more when you do. Or at least prefer it.”

_“Cutting.”_

“You know me,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “But seriously, answer the question. Could someone who doesn’t—and wouldn’t—watch a certain kind of porn—is there a way they could know the names of porn stars _in_ that kind of porn? Without having like, researched it? Just off the cuff?”

 _“Uh, sure?”_ Gabriel answers hesitantly, voice ringing with confusion. _“I mean—like, you, personally,_ obviously _don’t watch a lot of porn, and I don’t want to comment on how slightly-disconcerting that is—but the names of big porn stars are_ always _up somewhere on a website, like—”_

“Like Brent Valenti?”

Gabriel guffaws.

 _“Like_ who? _Oh, man—are you into Brent’s stuff? That’s_ hilarious! _Would you like me to introduce you guys? Did you call me just so I could introduce you? Little brother, that’s_ adorable! _I didn’t know you’d be—”_

“No, Gabriel,” Castiel answers firmly. “But the point is—it’s not—it’s not unreasonable to suppose that knowing the name of a certain porn star could—could indicate anything? About someone’s sexuality?”

 _“It could, and it couldn’t…”_ Gabriel answers slowly, frown evident in his voice. _“I guess the best way to know is to ask them… Well, that’s kind of forward, but you get what I mean.”_

“Right. Thanks.”

_“So you’re writing a book about pornos, huh? You gonna dedicate it to me?”_

“Thanks, Gabriel,” Castiel says again. “I hope you’re well.”

 _“You’re hanging up on me?_ Now?”

“I’ll call you in a couple of days. We can have a proper talk.”

 _“Cool. Cool, cool,”_ Gabriel’s voice is uplifted with obvious glee. _“Bye, Cassie. I look forward to it.”_

“Me too.”

_“And by the way…”_

“Yes?”

_“It’s actually great you called because I needed to tell you,”_

“…Yes?”

 _“So funny, actually,”_ Gabriel laughs, slightly nervous. Suspicion coils with muted sharpness between Castiel’s lungs.

 _“Uh, funny, peculiar,”_ Gabriel clarifies. _“Maybe not so much funny, ha-ha. But hey! You decide. Maybe a_ little _funny, ha-ha. Maybe one day we_ will _look back on this and laugh at this!”_

He’s stalling.

Why is he stalling?

“Gabriel?”

 _“As in, y’know, funny that you called, when_ I _was meaning to call_ you, _and funny that, the thing I was about to call you about, is kinda funny… uh…”_

“Gabriel…” Castiel frowns.

 _“Anna’s asked me and I told her she could and_ Michael _okayed it, so this is definitely not all on me, not_ all _on me, Cassie—”_

“Gabriel,” The name is eked out through Castiel’s gritted teeth.

 _“But Anna’s coming to stay with you and will be in Lawrence for the next… Well I don’t know, maybe indefinitely, it’s a, uh—a work thing? I think? I don’t know I wasn’t really listening—when do I ever?!”_ He laughs, overdoing it, and it comes out breathy, exacerbated by the fact Castiel hears it through phone speakers. “ _—You’ll have to ask her in person because she’ll be arriving on,”_ Gabriel makes a strange ticking noise as the sound of him filtering through papers rings down the phone, Castiel too confused to make a sound, _“the twenty-first. The twenty first! That’s today, shit!”_ Gabriel begins to laugh, again; Castiel is too confused to despair. _“And, uh, as for an exact time…”_ Gabriel begins clicking again and more papers rustle, _“anywhere between ten minutes ago and a couple of hours! Wow, it really_ is _lucky you called. I hope you’ve got a nice dinner lined up. Remember she’s a vegetarian, now! Also, I told her she’d be welcome to stay at yours, but it was_ Michael _who really pushed for it. Remember that. Funny story, actually—funny ha-ha, this time—for a moment, there, I was kind of paranoid_ that _was why you were calling! To tell me off for sending Anna over, to…”_ Gabriel trails off. _“Isn’t that silly? But it was Michael who pushed for it, so call him if you need to. Anna’s lovely, anyway—and you guys get along so well! Right? Or is that you and Muriel? Anyway, don’t get pissed off with me. If you get pissed off with_ anyone, _make it Michael. That’s always a sensible move. Okay? Okay. Cool, good chat, buddy! Love you lots! Bye!”_

Gabriel hangs up.

Castiel stares at his mobile, dumbstruck.

Anna, staying? Why? And for how long? And _why_ would Gabriel and Michael push for this?

Castiel stares down at the letter in his hand, the letter from his father that the chaos of his conversation with Gabriel had all but made him forget.

The doorbell rings.

 

…

 

Castiel stares at the FOR SALE sign that he has hammered into the grass in front of the house. His soul feels heavy, his resolve weak. He sniffs, eyes prickling, and, finding that a weight has been tied to his lungs, trudges slowly up the front porch steps to his house, over which a dull gold sun washes with yellowed light.

What a strange thing it is to say goodbye to a building. A house becomes a home when its inhabitants are bled into its walls; it doesn’t matter how in want it is of repair, how faded the paint of the door may be, the cracks on the tiles of the bathroom; people are like water or air: they take the shape of their vessel, going so far as to fill it. To leave is to be ripped away. And as it is, Castiel’s home has been beautiful and functional, somehow balancing the privilege of spotlessness with warmth and sincerity. A _good_ home. A rare home.

‘A good home’—What does that mean? And how hard could it possibly be to obtain?

“I’m going out tonight,” Anna states, tidying the kitchen. “So you won’t see me until late. Maybe not at all.”

“Maybe not at all?” Castiel repeats, supressing a smirk and raising his eyebrows. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, shut up,” Anna’s voice has all the hardness of a bite, but she beams even as she speaks. She begins the washing up. “By the way, what are your plans for tomorrow?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you all packed up? You’re flying in four days, and seeing as how it’s Thursday—”

“Here,” Castiel mumbles distractedly, pushing Anna gently away from the kitchen sink, “you pretty much made lunch all by yourself. Let me.”

“You’re letting me stay with you,” Anna points out with a laugh, “for free. The least I can do is do a little work for it.

“If you hadn’t come, I would’ve been eating pot noodle all this week—”

“I know you’ve been living like a student, Cassie, you don’t need to tell me,” Anna giggles. Castiel rolls his eyes. “But are you packed?”

“Yes, mom,” Castiel sighs pointedly. “Well,” He amends, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn frying pan, “not yet.” Anna laughs triumphantly. “But I _will_ be,” Castiel adds defensively, scowling at his cousin’s mirth.

 _“Sure_ you will,” Anna answers. “But just in case, get started tonight?”

“There’s no point doing it now,” Castiel frowns, shaking his head. “I never understood those people who pack days before going somewhere. How do you know what you need? Don’t you run out of clothes while you’re waiting to leave?”

“That’s why most people _plan,_ you know. It also saves the crazed hysteria of packing on the morning you leave.”

“I’m not a planner,” Castiel shakes his head.

“I’ve noticed.”

“And packing on the morning you leave isn’t crazed _or_ hysterical _,_ if you know what you’re doing,” Castiel points out. But he chooses to change the subject. “Who are you seeing tonight?”

“A couple of people,” Anna shrugs, but smiles a small kind of smile Castiel is sure he’s worn himself, on far too frequent an occasion. Anna’s smile fades and she looks back up at Castiel suddenly, squinting a little suspiciously. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” The writer shrugs, feigning indifference. “I was just wondering. I didn’t think you knew that many people in Lawrence—”

“I know enough,” Anna waves dismissively. “You make more friends by actually _leaving_ the house, you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Anna snorts.

“You’re sure you’ve got this covered?”  She asks, gesturing to the washing.

“Of course,” Castiel nods.

“Well, thanks. I’ll, uh,” Anna stops at the door of the kitchen, and turns back to her cousin, sheet of red hair sweeping over her shoulder, “I’ll probably be out for dinner, as well. Is that okay?” Then she huffs. “Why am I even asking that?” She asks with a sigh. “I’m too used to living with my mother.”

“Looks like it,” Castiel comments. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, most likely?”

“Think so,” Anna smiles warmly. About to leave, she stops again, pulling herself back into the room by the door frame. “Are you okay about this, by the way?”

“I’ve said, Anna,” Castiel answers, hardly looking up from where he stands, scrubbing a spatula, “it’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“No, Cassie,” Anna near-groans out. “I meant, are you _feeling_ okay?”

“How do you mean?”

“About moving,” Anna clarifies. Castiel withdraws, frowning, and biting his tongue. His cousin must notice the interior walls going up around his person, because she sighs and pats out a strange rhythm onto the wall. “Because you’ve lived here for so long, and I know how much this place meant to you, once upon a time.”

 _“Once_ upon a time,” Castiel repeats, “exactly. People change.”

“That much?” Anna raises her eyebrows, voice thickly unconvinced. “Time was, Cassie…”

“Time was, what?”

“You loved this place,” Anna repeats with a calculatedly careless shrug. She looks away, but then her eyes flick with purposeful, watchful, thoughtfulness, back up to Castiel.

“And I don’t hate it, now,” Castiel groans, “why does everyone keep acting like I’ve forgotten myself, or something? I know who I was, what I was like—I haven’t _changed,_ like that. It’s just—it’s not practical to live here, any more, Anna—”

“Since when were you a practical person?”

“I _am_ a practical person!”

“Not like this—since when were you like this?”

Castiel sets down the spatula roughly. Anna isn’t fazed, though she does blink. Castiel glowers at her.

“Don’t get _huffy,_ Castiel, I asked you a question.”

“You’re worse than Gabriel.”

“Not possible,” Anna shakes her head matter-of-factly. She goes on. “Everyone in the family is worried about you, you know. They all think you’re not yourself—what’s going on?”

“And what, you’ve been _discussing_ me with the family, now? Behind my back?” Castiel spins to look at Anna, who frowns, lips slightly pursed.

“Don’t make me the enemy, here. I _care._ And _we_ think you’re not coping,” She answers, frankly.

“Oh, well thank you all _very_ much for your diagnoses,” Castiel bites. “It really means a lot that you’re all _so_ clearly invested in me.

“Don’t be sarcastic—”

“I think I’d know if I wasn’t coping! And I think I know myself well enough to know whether or not I’m _‘being myself’—_ what does that even mean?!”

“I don’t have the energy for this,” Anna sighs, raising her arms in exasperation.

“You’re _five_ years younger than me, Anna, don’t talk down to me!”

“Four and a half!” Anna corrects, calling the words down the hall as she leaves the kitchen in a huff.

“It’s not my fault we have a nosy and invasive family!” Castiel shouts after her, but she’s already gone.

He slumps.

Well, admittedly, Castiel could’ve handled that better.

Finishing the washing up, he sits at the table and picks up one of the books he’s neglected out of depression and anxiety for the past couple of weeks, but that he, unfortunately, needs to create a series of lectures on for the next month.

An hour or so later, Anna comes back downstairs, changed, with her face half made-up.

“You look nice,” Castiel comments with the uncomfortable smile of the apologetic, as Anna peers round the kitchen door.

“Thank you,” Anna acknowledges the olive-branch with relative grace. “I’m meeting up with—” But here, she cuts herself off, in spite of a loose, embarrassed smile hanging at her features. “Anyway, at five thirty, in town, I’m seeing someone, so I wanted to be ready. Um—” She rocks on her heels nervously a moment, sucking her lips into her mouth, “I’m sorry about—” But she trails off. Apologies have never been Anna’s strong point; and not that she is especially stubborn—though she admittedly is—and not that she is proud—which she certainly isn’t—but, being a Milton, related to the Novaks, at least some degree of social-awkwardness is guaranteed. In spite of being assured and quietly confident, empathetic and observant, Anna hasn’t escaped awkwardness entirely. Here, Anna has it: she doesn’t know how to sensitively, or sincerely, bridge uncomfortable or terse conversations.

“That’s fine,” Castiel shrugs, “I overreacted. Majorly. I’m sorry. I’m not sleeping…” But here, his excuse has come out too close to an admittance that _indeed,_ he’s _not_ coping, and he cuts himself off. “Anyway,” He presses his lips grimly together. “Sorry.”

“No, me too,” Anna shakes her head, stepping into the kitchen. “It wasn’t—sensitive of me. Sensitivity isn’t a strong point—”

Castiel snorts, but Anna continues pointedly.

“—Of _anyone_ in our family.”

But Castiel looks up at her, unconvinced.

“Okay,” She admits, “so maybe Uncle Jimmy was good at it…” She swallows, pained. “And maybe you, too… But—obviously, Cas, I know you, and you don’t like— _talking—_ which is fine, but… If you ever wanted to? I’d listen.”

Castiel smiles.

“Thank you, Anna.”

“And, uh—it’s okay not to be okay, you know?” She raises her eyebrows, worriedly at Castiel. “You don’t have to have everything together, all the time. And you’re—y’know,” She swallows again, frowning. “Going through a lot. It’s okay to be worn out by it. _I_ would be. I _am,_ and I’m not going through half as much, as you. Moving house is a big deal on top of everything else, is all I’m saying—so if you want to express that—or anything else—to me, that’s cool.”

“But I’m not _moving,”_ Castiel points out. “I’ve lived in the UK for years.”

Anna stares at him for long enough that Castiel actually manages to feel uncomfortable.

And her answer to Castiel’s dismissive retort is poignant and simple enough to have come out of the mouth of Dean Winchester. Which is ironic—for some reason.

“I think you know why this time is different.”

And she leaves, again.

Castiel is too distracted to be able to concentrate on the tedious introduction to the satirical writings of Alexander Pope, not that he doesn’t _try_ to engage, and write notes, all the while wanting to crack his skull open against the white walls of the kitchen. He wishes Anna goodbye when, another hour later, she hops down the stairs, ready to leave, and then sluggishly gets up to make his way into the living room, hoping to find something a little more palatable to read. He catches sight of the Impala out in front of the green house across the street, and wonders how long it has been there: he didn’t notice it when hammering down the _for sale_ sign, earlier.

He sighs, heart aching with longing.

Oh, Dean.

How could that wound still hurt, so?

Ginsberg? Should Castiel read Ginsberg, today? No, he thinks, he needs more structure, and evidence of it, than Beat Literature would provide him, now.

What an awful mess his life has become. Is this how he is doomed to live? Constantly uncertain of what it is his heart desires, what it is his soul needs, what it is he may actually _obtain,_ constantly uncertain? One foot on sea, one on shore. Better yet, one foot in America, another in Scotland. And _Dean,_ stupid Dean making Castiel think the green eyed man is straight; no, gay; no, bi; no, straight; no, queer; no, definitely straight… On and on and on and on in the endless swing of confusion that surmises Dean Winchester and his utter unknowableness entirely.

Tennyson. Castiel settles. He’ll read some Tennyson.

After making himself a cup of tea, he settles onto the couch and begins _In Memoriam,_ which ought to take up at least _most_ of his evening, but the startling screech of tyres makes him jump and nearly spill his tea all over himself. Glaring, Castiel looks up, out the window for the source of the noise.

Dean’s car is gone.

After another couple of hours being utterly unable to concentrate, Castiel, huffing at himself, gets up and decides to go into town. He’ll visit Dean, perhaps—at The Roadhouse? The oldest Winchester son ought to be performing there tonight, if Castiel has his schedule at all memorised, which he knows he does, and it’s been a while since Castiel saw Dean last. What would the harm be?

And, in spite of it all, he _misses_ Dean. Balthazar threw his head into confusion about the green eyed man, and what it was Castiel’s relationship actually _meant,_ but first and foremost, Dean has always been a dear and beloved friend—the very dearest. It’s wrong that Castiel should isolate himself from his once-best friend, yet again. Isn’t it?

Certainly, after Dean’s rejection of him, Castiel tried reaching out, a few more painful times, and Dean yet again shut him down… Well, no—shut him _out—_ but, after all of that, _Castiel_ closed off to Dean Winchester, and was, inevitably, the reason the relationship could not be repaired.

Refusing to see Dean was perhaps a needless cruelty. But isn’t it always those already wounded that hurt others most?

He gets into his car, starting up its tired engine. Not his car, not really. _Jimmy’s_ car, He gets into Jimmy’s car, out of Jimmy’s house.

That Castiel is selling it now, after everything, is a betrayal, surely. His fingers fumble for the envelope which, coward that he is, Castiel is still too afraid to open.

Jimmy’s last words to him. And now Castiel _knows_ them to be Jimmy’s last words to him. What a terrible price. Too high a price, surely—and one that Castiel would be desperate to place all too much meaning upon; each word, each syllable, he would agonise to read into, far too much. Which, of all things, is worlds beyond what Jimmy was, and will always be, in Castiel’s mind.

The marks, Castiel thinks, that we leave upon the world are so often the cruel scratches of cynical commentary—he knows his certainly have been—and yet Jimmy was so kind, so consistently; circling around one constant centre of goodness, hardly wavering. Now, through the heart effusive eyes of grief, it seems that Jimmy was _never_ wavering. The letter would be this final mark of Jimmy’s goodness, his final mark upon the world, his final mark, though a new one, upon _Castiel—_ a shout into a void that could never be repeated. Should it be wrong for Castiel to feel so terrified? No, no. There is a cruelty in death that snatches words from mouths and makes further speech a tentative, nervous thing. What was the last thing Castiel said to his father? A phone conversation, postponed and postponed because of Castiel’s busyness and because it didn’t seem important at the time. Now he aches with the thought that he will never be allowed another.

Grief comes in waves, and is more like a tumultuous ocean than a lake that can be measured in finite, coherent terms. Most of it still unexplored, on some days it lies still and quiet, at worst plaintive, totally manageable. Other days it tosses and turns in restless tides and weeps for the beloved lost, others still it churns up dregs from its bottomless depths: ugly memories and regrets as it spits, spits, spits foam and seaweed and all its dead onto the shore. Those are its seasons. It is fathomless and without reason, and hope is the light that cannot be seen, standing at the bottom of its depths.

Castiel stops the car outside The Roadhouse. He looks up at its big sign and considers, a moment, how unhelpful going in will be. It doesn’t stop him.

Pushing open the creaking door and looking around the clustered tables and those middle-aged, depressed looking individuals sat at them, for any sign of Castiel’s ex-best friend and still-love of his life, the writer instead bumps into Ellen, who wears a distracted and consequently insincere smile at the sight of him.

“Castiel,” She greets, obviously worried. “Have you seen Dean?”

Castiel stops, faltering into a frown.

“No,” He shakes his head, the skittering nerves of Ellen apparently infectious. “I was just looking for him. What’s—what’s happened?”

“Nothi—” But here, Ellen stops short, shakes her head. “He was supposed to be here two hours ago, waiting tables for some extra money, but he never showed. I can’t go out and look for him, I’ve texted and called, but I need to stay and run the place, and Jo’s out tonight—”

“Two _hours_ ago?” Castiel repeats. Ellen knots her hands around a dirty dishcloth, folding and twisting it over and over in worried, sickened motion.

“Uh-huh,” She nods. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head quickly, then corrects himself. “Well, I saw his car outside his mom’s house, but—”

“Maybe I should call Mary…” Ellen mumbles distractedly, turning her head away.

“Maybe,” Castiel acknowledges. “When did _you_ see him last?”

“Uh,” Ellen chews at her lip, face contorting in an anxious attempt to recollect. “I—he got in a big fight with Sammy, this morning—”

 _“Another_ one?” Castiel asks, but Ellen ignores him.

“—And he called me, upset, but I was too busy here,” At this, Ellen is visibly distressed, “and so I told him to go to his mom—because he’s got to repair that relationship anyway, you know? But—”

“Do you think he’s in trouble?” Castiel asks. Ellen looks back at him with glittering eyes.

“I don’t…” She shakes her head. “Dean, he—nobody knows how he—not delicate, but—he feels things,” Ellen swallows, “and these last months—nobody—”

Castiel nods shortly, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“I understand. I’ll—I’ll look for him.”

Ellen’s expression softens.

“Oh, Castiel—”

“It’s no problem,” He quickly shakes his head. “You stay here. He might have just forgotten—”

“That’s not like him,” Ellen denies, “and he’s not answering his phone—”

Castiel takes a steeling breath, refusing to be infected by Ellen’s anxieties.

Like a mother’s anxieties, he thinks, looking at Ellen.

“He’ll be fine,” Castiel reassures. “I’ll look for him. He can’t have gotten far. Has he ever done this before?”

“Not on work time,” Ellen shakes her head. “But he—” Her lip trembles. “He might be drinking.”

An ugly swell of guilt takes over Castiel, though he cannot understand where it has come from or why it should have come in the first place. Nevertheless, swallowing grimly, he answers,

“I’ll look for him,” And leaves, barely hearing Ellen’s desperate attempts at thanks.

Dive bars. Are there any dive bars in town, _other_ than The Roadhouse?

Castiel starts up the engine. It begins to rain grimly.

There are two more bars round the corner from The Roadhouse. Both are void of Dean, Castiel jumps into his car after scanning the second with a heart in his throat, drops of water from the drizzle slipping off his shoulders.

Downtown. Wasn’t Dean always joking about working at the dive bar there, when they were teenagers? What was it called? Bulls, Bills. Billies?

Castiel drives. The streets are gray with sleet, his heart flutters in nervous, piercing motions inside his chest. The streetlights have turned on, orbs of light beneath a dimming sky dimmed more still by the sustained press of water from above. Castiel squints at the road, at the sidewalks, as droplets after droplets chase each other in disjointed, eerily human motions down the pains of his windshield.

Downtown. Is this a safe bet? What if he doesn’t find Dean? What if he can’t?

Drains are overflowing. Castiel can see the light from Billies—it _is_ called Billies!—in the distance—and spots another bar and liquor store further along the poorly-lit, narrow street. Pulling over and grabbing his coat from the passenger’s seat, Castiel gets out, slamming his door and hauling his coat on. It’s difficult to make out, but, from _Billies,_ a figure stumbles out and trips, falling in front of the bar covered in posters and graffiti, onto gravel. There isn’t a shout of pain, but rather a disoriented noise, and laughter from the blood red door open behind him.

Squinting through the rain, Castiel runs over.

Despite everything he was expecting, he still manages to be shocked unhappily.

Dean—of _course_ it’s Dean, on the curb, staggering up, with a busted lip and bleeding hands. Castiel sighs, shaking his head, and bends to help him up.

 _“Dean,”_ He groans, but Dean pushes him off dismissively, with little coordination, turning back to the figure at the door.

 _“Fuck_ you,” He spits, kicking rain-wetted gravel in his direction in a spray of sooty water and pieces of rock.

“Yeah, right back at you,” The barman, stood at the door, rolls his eyes, thick arms crossed defensively. “Stop causin’ trouble. You’re barred—”

“But _he—”_ Dean gestures into the bar, behind the door.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” The man holds up an alarmingly large hand to silence, yet Dean _still_ somehow thinks it’s a good idea to lunge at him in attack. Castiel grabs hold of his arms and holds him back, Dean struggling hard and bucking so that he nearly connects the back of his head with Castiel’s, and, for an ugly moment, Castiel thinks he _will,_ on purpose.

“He _started_ it!” Dean bellows, still fiercely attempting to wrench himself free, drunkenly, in thick sheets of sleet.

“I don’t give a shit!” The bouncer shouts back. Castiel notices with alarm blood running down Dean’s knuckles, watered down to an indecisive red-orange colour in the intensity of the rain, cuts spattered across the ridges of Dean’s fingers and back of his hand.

“You _bastard!”_

“Dean!” Castiel shouts, pulling at Dean, hard, to regain his attention. “Stop it!”

“Smart boyfriend you got there, flower,” The barman leers. “Maybe you should listen to him, before you get yourself hurt.”

Dean snarls, finally wrenching himself free in a final, unexpected tug of fury, lunging toward the stranger, who boots Dean back onto the gravel. Dean hisses in pain, grimacing as the rain thunders and the red door to Billies slams shut.

“Bastard!” Dean shouts, words slurred and drunken. “Bastard!” He shouts again, louder, so that his voice rips and rings in harmony with the rain.

“Dean!” Castiel shouts again, bending, once more, down in front of Dean and shaking him. A hot, furious pulse beats through Castiel’s veins and brings a firm, unquestionable decision to his movements. Dean’s eyes, fierce with defiance and resentment, suddenly refocus on the writer and wavering recognition slides across their surface in a moment’s moment.

“Cas?” He asks back, voice hoarse, lips hardly able to move around the word. Castiel sighs pointedly in confirmation, but then Dean surprises him.

Head tilting forward with the slowness of the _extremely-fucking-wasted,_ Dean presses his face into Castiel’s shoulder.

“Dean,” Castiel tries, utterly bewildered, “you—Ellen’s been waiting for you—”

“Oh, _shit—_ Ellen,” Dean groans, trying to stagger up, but failing miserably and falling backwards, “I forgot, I forgot—”

“Dean,” Castiel holds out a steadying hand as Dean attempts to rise again, once more losing balance and nearly falling over, “slow down—”

“No, ’ve gotta get to work—” Dean shakes his head, stumbling away, “’m’fine—jus’ gotta get—to—”

“You’re not in any kind of state for _that,_ Dean—”

“Can’t _afford—”_

Castiel catches Dean when he slips.

“I need to take you home,” Castiel shakes his head. “I’ll call Ellen and explain—it’s fine, she’ll understand, she’s only worried about you, that’s all—”

“I don’t deserve—” Dean shakes his head as Castiel walks the music teacher over to his car. “I don’t—”

“Dean, don’t talk like that,” Castiel frowns, opening the door and sitting Dean down onto the passenger seat, where he lolls, swaying sickeningly. “Did you have a coat? Have you left anything behind?”

“Coat—” Dean groans, holding his head with a pained expression as his knees knock together clumsily. “In—bar—”

“That’s everything?” Castiel asks. “Not a bag, too?”

Dean groans, leaning forward, out the car. The rain soaks his hair.

“Need to puke…”

“Dean,” Castiel taps his arm, “do you have anything _other_ than a coat? Anything else I need to pick up?”

“Bag…” Dean answers. “From work. Inside,” Dean gestures back to the bar, arm swinging in lurching clumsiness.

He begins to retch. Castiel angles him a little more securely so that he won’t fall out, but can still be sick onto the curb if he needs to. Dean’s hair is wet with rain, chin streaked with blood. His gaze is distant and unfocussed, he sways non-commitantly. A moan sounds underneath the pattering rain, emitted by Dean in his drunken, sickly confusion. Castiel worriedly turns back to the bar and runs inside. The barman, bald and with a ruddy, coarse beard, watches Castiel with vigilant, suspicious eyes made small with spite.

“Can I help you?” He asks as he wipes down a table. Men at the other end of the bar stare and whisper, hunched over their table and drinks. Another few laugh in a way that makes Castiel feel uneasy.

“My friend left some stuff here,” Castiel begins, frowning back at the men before turning to the barman, “I’ve come to pick it up. Where was he sat?”

The man squints for a moment, then gestures over to a table a little away from the watchful men. Dean’s coat has been knocked onto the floor, battered from years of use—Castiel thinks he remembers it to be John’s, in fact—and now dirtied by the floor of the bar. Dean’s bag sits under his chair. Castiel picks both up, and, turning back to the barman, asks,

“What happened?”

The barman only barks out a laugh—as do a few of the other men—and continues his work. Castiel frowns, and makes his way to the door.

“He’s not welcome back here,” The man says as Castiel reaches it, hand faltering at its surface as he is addressed. “Tell him that.”

Castiel turns back, about to reply and ask _why—_ Dean isn’t _violent,_ just impulsive, especially so when drunk, if he’s anything like what he was at sixteen. So what made Dean so angry? And what did he do that merited his being barred?

Castiel notices that two of the more surly looking customers are nursing a split lip, and a bruised eye.

One of them—around forty, with salt-and-pepper hair, a nose that looks as though it’s been broken several times, and a battered denim jacket—smirks, though something in it is strangely sharp with defensiveness. He calls out to Castiel from his chair,

“Yeah, and tell _princess_ if I see him again, I won’t be so kind to him.”

Castiel glares for one final moment, confused and most certainly livid, unwilling though _desperate_ to lecture all of these men on their misogyny and sexism and heterosexism—but it’s not worth it. It’s _definitely_ not worth it. And Dean is waiting for him.

He shoves the door open and makes his way back out into the cold and rain, to see Dean’s figure slouched, half in, half out, of the passenger’s side of the car. And, of course, in the time it’s taken Castiel to get in and out of the bar, Dean’s been sick—fortunately not _in_ the car. But it doesn’t leave Castiel feeling any kind of easy about how taking Dean home is going to turn out.

He crouches down in front of Dean and scowls again, even as his hands cup the side of Dean’s sodden face to keep his head up.

“Dean,” He taps the other man’s cheeks to gain his attention, “Dean, are you awake? You can’t fall asleep, okay? You—you might’ve hit your head, with the fall, which means you might be—”

He attempts to look Dean over as he speaks, but the drunken, green eyed man swats him away with clumsy and dismissive motions, embittered by something, as Dean’s lips curl miserably.

“’M _fine,”_ He growls. “’know what a concussion is, n’ I don’t _have_ one, I—”

But his words are slurred, and even as he speaks, he begins retching again.

Castiel draws away—partly out of disgust, worried that he’s going to get puked on—and partly out of remorse at the cruel dismissiveness of Dean’s actions. He crosses his arms and stares down at Dean, attempting to be rational and objective, not as invested in the catastrophic human in front of him as he yearns to be. Dean is revealing, in his uninhibited drunkenness, that he doesn’t care about Castiel: Castiel shouldn’t care about Dean apart from as far as empathetic decency will allow.

“Winchester, what the hell happened?” He asks, perhaps a little harsher than necessary. Dean attempts to turn up at him, but can’t maintain the pose of a head raised for more than half a second.

“Got drunk,” Is all the answer Castiel gets.

“Yeah, no shit,” Castiel rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. The rain grows harder, something in its temperament and iciness reminding Castiel of the sleet he gets in Edinburgh, only a few steps removed from hail.

“Got in a fight,” Dean’s voice turns a little sadder.

“I could tell _that,_ too,” Castiel reminds. “Why?”

Dean looks up at Castiel and even in the downpour, the writer can make out the tears in his best friend’s eyes.

“Can you take me home?” He asks, pleadingly. His voice cracks in the wind.

“Of course,” Castiel sighs. “It’s not like you’re in a fit state for anything else.” Dean looks guilty and ashamed at this comment, but doubles over, gagging again, and Castiel withdraws at the risk of being vomited on. “I’ll call Ellen and tell her what’s happened,”—But that’s a thought: Castiel doesn’t have Ellen’s number. Nor does he have Jo’s—not that it would _particularly_ help, Jo is out tonight, Castiel heard it from her own mother. So what should he do?

“I’ll take you back to yours, then run to The Roadhouse and explain what’s going on,” Castiel decides, but Dean looks up clumsily, hurriedly, with fear in his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” He shakes his head. “Ellen’ll worry—”

“Well duh, Dean, but I don’t have her number, and it’s better than her _seeing_ you, which would make her worry more—”

“Call her,” Dean shakes his head, fumbling for his phone, in his back pocket—but at pulling it out, reveals a screen utterly blitzed and broken beyond repair. Castiel remembers the fall Dean took onto the curb. _“Fuck,”_ Dean groans, and begins retching again, dropping his already-shattered phone onto the sidewalk. “Oh, fuck, _fuck—”_

Castiel picks it up and puts it in his pocket, not trusting Dean with it, even though it’s already pretty much destroyed, spidery lines cracked across its surface.

“It’s fine,” Castiel shakes his head. “Things break. Don’t worry.”

But Dean doesn’t pay attention. Castiel sighs and places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, which the other man doesn’t even seem to notice. Still, the writer reasons to himself, it’s better than him pushing Castiel away.

“Let’s get you home, Dean,” He reminds, but Dean snorts bitterly and finally brushes Castiel off.

“No home,” He shakes his head clumsily, words a drunken tumble, knotted together by the smell of liquor on his breath. Castiel Doesn’t understand what Dean means.

“No home?” He repeats. “Dean, you’re not homeless. Where’s your apartment?”

“Not home _less,”_ Dean corrects. “No _home_.”

Castiel glares, still not understanding.

“Where do you _live_ , Winchester?” He presses, a little more forcefully, this time.

“In—” Dean begins, but groans, head in his hands, and dry heaves. “I,” But he can’t finish his sentence.

“I need to get you some water,” Castiel mumbles, hopelessly, more to himself than to Dean, who is as uncomprehending as ever. The writer looks all about him in the storm, feeling like the Ancient Mariner Coleridge wrote about. _“Water, water, everywhere,”_ He mutters, exasperated.

“’Can’t let you see it,” Dean looks up at Castiel, posture wobbly. Is he crying again?

“Why not?” Castiel frowns, but Dean groans, face red, and doubles over again. “Why not, Dean?” He asks, crouching down beside the other man, who pushes him clumsily away, again, with surprising force. Castiel scowls once more.

“You’re such—” But he cuts himself off, looking up at the sky to regain some patience. At the raindrops splattering his face, he realises that he’s utterly sodden, and that Dean is in a similar state. Grumbling, Castiel gets up. “Well, I’ve got to get you _somewhere,”_  He shakes his head, “and out of the rain, at least.”

“Mary’s.”

Dean’s answer is gasped out, but is nevertheless firm and decisive. And it’s actually a pretty sensible suggestion. Castiel is almost surprised.

“Good idea,” Castiel nods. Then, after another moment reflecting on this, “But you’re gonna have to actually _get in.”_

Dean tries to turn around and get his feet from where they rest, on the pavement, to into the car, but in the end Castiel has to help him.

“How did you get _so drunk,”_ Castiel sighs, not expecting an answer, but Dean surprises him with one.

“’Cause of _you,”_ He shoves hard at Castiel’s chest, making the writer look up in indignant surprise—but he is still more shocked at, once again, the tears eking onto Dean’s face.

“Why because of me?” Castiel asks, voice quiet. But Dean only stares at him—the quintessential Winchester scowl—and doesn’t answer. The dark haired man figures he won’t be getting one out of Dean, today, and so exhales grumpily, closing Dean’s door and moving over to the driver’s seat.

When he opens his door and gets in, Dean is resting his head on the passenger window, looking hopeless.

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, but Dean shakes his head.

“You.”

“Me?” Castiel repeats, frowning and more than a little upset at getting blamed for he-isn’t-quite-sure-what. Honestly. Was Dean _always_ this childish?

“Pissed off at me,” Dean swallows back what Castiel suspects will be more vomit.

“Do you want me to open your window, Dean?” He asks, ignoring the accusation. Dean shakes his head, still keeping it against the window, now beginning to mist with a swim of condensation. Castiel huffs, frustrated, and starts up the engine.

“See?” Dean lifts his head, eyes still watering. “Pissed off at me.”

“I’m not pissed, Dean,” Castiel denies, but Dean lets out a bitter snort. “I’m _worried,”_ He corrects. “You worried me—and Ellen—just now.” He begins to drive. “You know, you can’t just—” But he doesn’t want to tell Dean off, right now. He isn’t sure why. “We care about you. Please don’t scare us like that.”

Dean makes a noise of disagreement.

“What?” Castiel asks, glancing over at him.

“You don’t care,” Dean shakes his head. He wipes a rain-sodden sleeve across the tear-tracks on his face. “You don’t care,” He repeats. “Don’t care, don’t care,” He shakes his head, over and over, while Castiel worriedly grips at the steering wheel. What’s happening to Dean?

“I _do,”_ He corrects. “How could you think I don’t?”

Dean curls up in his seat and hugs his knees to his chest. He looks like he did when they were kids, and Dean’s parents were fighting. His eyes are sunken, red, bloodshot. Bags weigh at the skin beneath them. The green, usually flashed with geometric droplets of gold has lost the shimmer that once set them ablaze, Castiel’s heart with it.

“You,” Is all the answer the writer gets. He doesn’t understand, and shakes his head hopelessly.

But Dean was always cleverer than anyone gave him credit for. He’s driving at something now, that Castiel cannot access. But Castiel can try.

“Me,” He repeats, not questioning it, and Dean nods, seeming for a split second relieved that Castiel appears to be understanding him—at least in part. But the motion seems to disagree with the green-eyed man, and he gags, and just about manages to gasp out,

“Window—”

—Before Castiel is undoing it, and Dean is curling around the pane, vomiting fortunately outside the car and heaving with miserable sounds. He hangs out of it for a few minutes, apparently not trusting himself to come back in, but it gives Castiel time to think.

Dean visited his mom’s but then didn’t go to work; Dean instead got drunk; Dean seemed to get into a fight and made an enemy of just about every person in the bar Castiel found him in—or rather, just _outside of—_ but why? Why any of that?

Dean swallows thickly as he picks himself up and sits back in the car. His hair, which had been beginning to dry, is completely soaked again from hanging out the window, and Castiel removes his gaze—however reluctantly—from the droplet after droplet that chase themselves down his neck in irregular movements.

“Better?” He asks, keeping his eyes stubbornly on the road. Dean makes an unconvincing sound of confirmation.

“Tired.”

Castiel glances over to him. Dean certainly looks it.

“You can sleep,” He says. “We won’t be long, but close your eyes.”

“’Be sick again,” Dean shakes his head. Castiel presses his lips together, grimly.

“Yeah, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“’M sorry,” Dean shakes his head again, swallowing. “Sorry—”

“—It’s fine—”

“—For everythin’ for,” Dean swallows twice, wincing, “bein’ messy, for—”

“—It’s _fine—”_

“And you,” Dean gestures drunkenly over to Castiel, “you, you,” He says over and over, and once again, Castiel is lost. “You. You.”

His head is pressed back against the frame of the window, and after a few moments, the green eyed man appears to have passed out. Castiel can’t help but be a little relieved.

“Fuck,” He mutters to himself, shaking his head in shock. _“Fuck,”_ He says again. “Fuck, _fuck.”_

He turns onto the road he and Dean used to live on. It’s never been such a relief.

“Alright,” He murmurs, though Dean isn’t paying attention, as he pulls in beside Dean’s house. “Dean, wake up,” He reaches over and shakes Dean’s arm, “we’re here.” Dean blinks into consciousness and swallows miserably. Castiel gets out and leaves Dean in the passenger seat. “I’ll be back in a minute,” He says, again unsure of how much Dean is _actually_ taking in. “Just sit tight.”—Because he’ll probably need help getting Dean out the car, or at least for Mary to hold the front door open for him.

But, knocking at it, Castiel gets no answer.

Where’s Mary?

He rings.

No answer.

He knocks on several windows.

A light is on, but the room it illuminates is empty, as far as Castiel can make out, squinting through a pane of glass obscured by a lace curtain. The whole _house_ is empty. It reminds Castiel curiously of when he found himself abandoned by Dean, nine years ago. Except now it feels as though the whole Winchester family is in on the same trick, and laughing at him behind muffled glass. The light left on in the living room seems left on more by accident and hurry in leaving, than left on by inhabitation. Castiel frowns uneasily and returns to the door, knocking again. Still nothing. A feather of panic traces itself along the grain of his insides. He looks for the key that was always left under the third flowerpot on the left side of the path to the door; it’s been moved—Castiel wonders if someone forgot to return it, or if Mary keeps it in a new place, now. Either way, it doesn’t help the writer like feel any less of an intruder.

He clambers over the gate into the back yard, and tries knocking on the windows there. Then he tries banging.

“Come _on,”_ He grumbles, panic rising in his system. “This is _important,_ Mary.” Then, without thinking, “ _Dean_ is important.”

No response.

He jumps the gate again and runs back to his car. Dean is still passed out in it.

Castiel swallows, processing for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then he opens Dean’s door.

“Right,” He taps Dean’s face until the bright green eyes, still dimmed by sorrow, sleepily regain consciousness. “Your mom’s not in, so you’re gonna stay at mine,”—Dean can only blink gratefully—“is that okay?”—A clumsy, drunken nod—“Good. But you’re gonna have to help me. Okay? Can you get out? Can you try to walk?”

Dean moves himself, awkward and uncertain but still purpose-driven, and gets his feet planted on the ground. Actually standing up seems to prove a little more difficult, and he comes almost comically close to falling again, but Castiel is ready to loop Dean’s arm over his shoulder and begin walking the other man over to the white house opposite Dean’s childhood home.

He knocks at the door, praying that Anna will be back from her night out, but of course she isn’t, so Castiel fumbles for his key and just about manages to unlock the door, staggering in with Dean and not bothering to close it behind them. They make it to the living room, Castiel practically dropping Dean onto a couch, because in those last couple of moments, the older Winchester brother must have given up completely, and Castiel was forced to carry a fully grown man into his home.

He wants to fall backward, too, utterly spent, but he runs through the easing rain to his car to grab Dean’s things and lock it, also closing the front door, this time. He drops them at Dean’s side, which seems to spark Dean into an inebriated kind of action; he frowns and opens his bag, rummaging through it.

“I’m getting you some water,” Castiel states, watching him, nonplussed but as determined to be practical as ever. “Would you like anything else? Some coffee might wake you up—I still don’t know if it’s good that you should be sleeping, though normally I’d suggest you just sleep this off—after you fell, I mean. Or maybe some tea? Or food?” Dean groans at the thought and shakes his head, the thought of eating apparently making him feel worse. Castiel presses his lips together and nods, not totally surprised, and goes to the kitchen, rummaging for a paper bag for Dean to be sick into if he needs to, again, and also for water. He makes a coffee and some toast anyway, just in case the other man changes his mind.

Back in the living room, he places the water in Dean’s hand, the coffee on the coffee table, before turning back and getting Dean’s toast, and a drink for himself.

And fuck, if he doesn’t deserve one. What he _really_ wants is one of Balthazar’s mixes, more spirit than anything else—his gin and tonics are really just gin, maybe with a little lime and a suggestion of fizz—but he considers the ethics of drinking alcohol whilst looking after an inebriated once old friend, now—what, exactly?—and decides the morality doesn’t quite add up. He settles on a tea. He goes back into the living room to find Dean sitting up, almost straight, much to his surprise, with something clutched in his hands.

“Right, Dean,” Castiel sighs, soft and slow, sitting down on the floor in front of the Winchester. Dean stares at him there for a moment, before deciding to join him, sliding down from the couch and onto the carpet. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Dean swallows and looks away. He takes a long drink of water. Then another. He drains the glass. He still looks thirsty. Castiel offers him his tea. Dean, to the writer’s surprise, accepts—he really _must_ be thirsty, _and_ incredibly drunk, to accept it. So Castiel gets up to get a jug of water, and another tea.

And, returning again, he’s surprised to see Dean fiddling with the carpet like he did when he was upset when they were teenagers, looking out the window to the front garden of Castiel’s old home.

“What is it?” He asks. Dean doesn’t answer. “And what happened, tonight?”

Dean looks back at him, something strange settled in his intoxicated, weary but still ever so beautiful eyes.

“You left me,” Dean says, sadly and simply, eyes welling up with tears, mouth open.

Castiel blinks.

“What?”

Dean swallows, trying to sober up, and nods.

“You,” He says, slowly, “nine years ago. _You_ left.”

Oh, _fuck_ no.

But Castiel doesn’t rise. He grinds his teeth together, recentering.

“And you’re leaving, now,” Dean says, only alongside his words, a sob falls from his lips. Castiel falters.

“Wait,” He frowns, “what?”

Dean gestures, lip trembling, eyes unfocussed on a point just below Castiel’s jawline, to where he’d been looking, out the window. Castiel follows the motion and sees the sign he’d all but completely forgotten about in the chaos of the night: ‘FOR SALE’. It stills him for a moment. He turns back to Dean.

“You’re leaving Jimmy, leaving—” But Dean can’t seem to finish. But then, to Castiel’s surprise, he does. “You’re leaving _me—_ and everything—and everything we—” And he begins to cry in earnest. Castiel is staggered, his mouth hangs open, he realises his hands have found Dean’s shoulders and grip there, and he lets go in an instant, withdrawing out of shock. “And I keep trying,” Dean shakes his head, losing awareness of Castiel’s presence, a telltale sign that his thoughts are running away with him, and he’s no longer considering his words—well, considering them even less than ordinary, that is. “I keep trying to tell you,” Dean sobs, curling his knees up to his chest, turning his face into his arms, “Jimmy knew, he must’ve—he knew _everything,_ everything about me, everything about you; he—”

“Dean,” Castiel shakes his head, mouth dry, tongue cracked, “I don’t—”

“—I keep trying to tell you, in so many different ways, but you never listen,” Dean shakes his head, voice trembling, “you never listen, you never listen, and I know that’s my fault, and I know _I_ shut _you_ out, but I’ve said in so many ways.” He looks up to Castiel. “How could you not know?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel shakes his head, uncertain of why his heart should be jackhammering away at his chest, unsure of the urgency and anguish that singe the edges of Dean’s voice, “I don’t understand, Dean—”

“I _sang,”_ Dean states, hopelessly, and Castiel remembers the alcohol on his breath and wonders if _Dean_ even knows what he’s saying.

“Maybe you just need some rest,” Castiel shakes his head, taking hold of Dean’s arm, but Dean wrenches himself free, fiercely, with more venom and resentment in the action than the writer could ever excuse. No. Of course, Dean doesn’t want someone _queer_ touching him. Not when that person told him, once upon a time, they _loved_ him. Even now, Dean’s homophobia touches something raw and hopeless inside Castiel, and rallies anger around the site of the weeping wound of heartbreak.

“I _don’t!”_ Dean shouts, voice frayed. “You never listen, Cas, you never listen. I keep tellin’ you, don’t I? Aren’t you listening, now? I’m telling you, _now!”_

“I don’t understand!” Castiel nearly shouts back.

“You’re leaving!” Dean bellows. “You’re movin’, and it means you’re never comin’ back! Not this time—never—never—”

Castiel’s anger recoils into a surprised simmer. A line knits his brows together as he stares at Dean, lost.

“You’re movin’,” Dean’s words are still slurred by alcohol, “and you didn’t even _tell_ me, didn’t even _ask_ me… and _Jimmy’s_ dead, and—and—”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel shakes his head. Of course—this house has been a wealth of security to Dean Winchester, over his lifetime, and is perhaps Dean’s only real way to reconnect with Castiel’s father, outside of Castiel himself. And the writer has simply _abandoned_ that—because it was inconvenient. Something bitter seeps into his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Dean doesn’t seem to hear it.

“You can’t go,” He gasps. “Please—please, Cas, stay—this is your _home,_ this is _my_ home. I didn’t ask before… but… I’m—now. You were brought here, you’re meant to stay here!—stay here, in this town, it’s a mess, and so am I—but you—but you always made it better—you made—” Dean hiccups and sobs between words and Castiel can hardly understand.

“Slow down,” He presses, gripping Dean’s forearm.

_“Stay.”_

“I can’t—”

 _“Please!”_ Dean sobs. “I need to tell you—I never—and if I did—”

“Dean—”

“You wanna know why I got in a fight, today?” He asks. Castiel pauses, presses his lips together worriedly. “You wanna know why it hurts so much, that Jimmy’s dead? You wanna know why I can’t stand to see you sell this house?” Castiel is as bewildered as ever. Dean’s expression turns sour. His thoughts, again, run away with him, hand in impulsive and volatile hand. “Wanna know why my dad hated me? Wanna know what I said to my mom, today? Oh, it sure did break her heart, Cas,” Dean shakes his head, “but she broke _mine._ You wanna know how? You wanna know what I can never forgive her for? Wanna know why I’d come over here, so often, at night? Wanna know why I was so glad Jimmy loved you, no matter what? Even after you came out? Do you… do you… do—”

“Dean, I really don’t follow—”

_“You.”_

“What?”

Dean shoves something into Castiel’s hands. It’s the notebook he’d always be scribbling in when they were teenagers, the one he never let Cas see. The writer frowns down at it.

“What is this?” Castiel asks, looking up at Dean. He forgets about the rain outside with the look Dean wears on his face, staring at Castiel.

“I love you,” Dean says. The world stills and Castiel doesn’t even realise. The rain turns to a thrumming heartbeat in his ears. The sky has dimmed. “I love you,” Dean says again, shaking his head, eyes stung with more tears, these purer than before. Castiel shakes his head too, but Dean speaks over him. “I _love_ you,” He says, loudly, shoving the words into Castiel’s chest and stealing his breath in return. “How could you not know that?”

Castiel cannot speak. He can’t think. He can’t move. Dean glares at him, then grows frustrated.

“Aren’t you listening, Cas? I _love_ you! I’m tellin’ you I love you and you’re jus’ sittin’ there!” He shakes Castiel, pushes him, but still the writer cannot move. “I love you!” Dean shouts. “Say somethin’—do someth—”

“Dean,” Castiel says, shakily. “You’re drunk. You’re sad. You’re sad about me moving. I get it. But you don’t need to—”

“I’m not!”

“You told me, nine years ago,” Castiel’s voice can’t find firm footing, he breathes in rattly motion. “You told me nine years ago, that you didn’t feel the same. And that’s _fine._ You don’t need to feel bad for it. I made _peace_ with it, Dean. And I’m here now, and we’re friends, and you don’t need to lie to make amends—”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, voice soft with disbelief, “You don’t… You don’t believe me?”

“I know you feel guilty about it,” Castiel swallows, throat utterly dried up, “but this isn’t how you make amends. That’s not fair. You don’t need to lie. I’m happy, being just friends with you, Dean.”

Dean stares at Castiel hopelessly.

“I mean it,” He says, in a rasp. “I’m not—what I said, nine years ago, on your roof—it wasn’t true, Cas—none of it was true. I _love_ you. I’m _sorry—”_

_“Dean—”_

“Cas!”

“You got in a fight with your mom, you’re sorry for how things ended between us, the last time—because I’m moving, I guess—”

“You never listen,” Dean shakes his head hopelessly. “You’ve never—if you listened _then,_ you would’ve heard it—”

“Heard what?”

“You were gonna stay in America, for me,” Dean blinks renewed tears out his eyes, “you were gonna stay, and leave your dream in England—like Samandriel had asked you to do for him—and _I_ never asked you to do it for me—I never assumed—but you were gonna do it anyway—and I couldn’t let you—”

“Dean—”

“And maybe—” Dean looks away, to his house across the street, “maybe I was scared, too. Maybe…”

“Scared of what?”

“You were lucky, to have Jimmy,” Dean says, face red, “and I never had that—and—and—” He looks back to Castiel. “You remember when I said I wanted to marry you?”

“What?”

“When we were—I dunno—kindergartners. Don’t you remember? I—I said I wanted to marry you. Who else would I want to marry? Who else could I _ever…_ But Jimmy was—of course, he was—so kind, and I thought… I thought it was normal. Don’t you remember? So when we saw my dad, and I said—” But Dean stops, and shame covers his face. “And I said, _Cas and I are getting’ married!_ He just—he…”

Castiel’s heart begins to sink into his stomach.

Oh.

Now he remembers.

“Don’t you remember all those summers where I’d go missing for like, weeks? And come back miserable and weird? And I’d need you to crack me open, I was a shell, I needed you… Don’t you remember?”

Of course Castiel remembers. It sweeps over him in a tidal wave of grim realisation paired with shock and disdain at himself for being so, so blind.

But Dean continues, unaware.

“Don’t you remember how my family suddenly started going to church, again, when my dad hadn’t cared, before? Don’t you remember how we had to stop having sleepovers at mine? Don’t you remember how confused I was when he died? Don’t you remember how Mary stood idly by and did _nothing?!”_ Dean wrenches himself back into reality and refocuses on Castiel. “It was—secret—behind closed doors—but _I_ remember what he did, and what he said, and no one knew, but Mary—and Jimmy couldn’t help because he didn’t know, and you, and _you,”_ Dean’s hands fumble for Castiel’s arms. “I loved you—from—you walked into your kitchen, all those years ago—twenty… twenty four. Twenty five? You walked in,” Dean shakes his head, “and I loved you. And I love you, still. From then on.” Dean blinks, mouth open, lip trembling. “You… you never gave me a chance, Cas.”

Castiel’s soul is shaking.

“And then,” Dean continues, swallowing, “you were Jewish, and I thought—because of my dad—you couldn’t believe in God, and be queer—or be okay with being queer—and so I bit down on it. With everything, I bit, I bit, and I bled and I bled, and nobody knew—nobody but Mary knew, and she could see the blood, and she didn’t even wipe it up. And then you kissed Samandriel, and I thought—” Dean laughs bitterly a moment, “’he likes men, he just doesn’t like _you’._ And it stung like fire. I was—so I kissed Lisa, and before I knew it… And then you were telling me you loved me, saying you wouldn’t leave for someone you loved—and I couldn’t let you do that! I did it for you, Cas, I did all of it, for you, for you. Everything’s for you. And you never worked it out. You were so smart, but you never worked it out.” Dean’s lips twitch upward, sourly. “Guess I outsmarted the smartest guy in our grade, huh? What does that make me? But—” Dean shakes his head, “that wasn’t all of it. You kissed me,” He looks up, and something familiar and burning and beautiful and longing fills his eyes. “You kissed me,” He says again, slowly, like he’s kissing the words as he speaks them, now, “and it was perfect—for a moment—” Castiel remembers: when Dean kissed back, for a moment’s perfect moment, in his arms. “—But a light was on in my house, and my mom was there—and—”

A horrid realisation drenches Castiel’s insides.

“I hadn’t told her anything,” Dean shakes his head, tipsily, “but she _knew._ But she’d never said it was okay. So when you kissed me—”

“Dean,” Castiel says, hands shaking as they fumble for Dean’s shoulders, “it’s okay, it’s—”

“It’s _not,_ it’s not okay! You’re leaving, again—and I—I know that if I _could_ persuade you, make you believe—”

“I _do,”_ Castiel tries, but Dean isn’t listening. He surges forward. His lips find Castiel’s and it is a hard and burning kiss that Dean buries them in, stung with spirits, singed by nine years since their lips last met, for the first time, and it is breathless and heartbroken and gasping and shocked and lumbering, like a great and hungry beast sprawling down the face of a mountain, emerging from a cave; it is nine years on fourteen years, it’s thunder and the smoke in the air before a lightning strike, it’s, it’s—

Wrong.

It’s wrong.

Dean moaning in Castiel’s arms and trying to straddle him is wrong.

Castiel is scum. Castiel is taking advantage of a man who’s spent the last hour crying and vomiting in his presence.

Dean pushing Castiel back, Dean’s hands knotted in the writer’s hair, Dean’s fingers trailing deliberately down his neck; it’s wrong, all of it is wrong.

Castiel pushes Dean away, gasping.

Something new stings in the air between them, now.

“Dean,” He shakes his head, “you’re drunk, you shouldn’t—”

“I’ve wanted to do that for the best part of twenty years,” Dean shakes his head, trying to tangle himself with Castiel again, but once more, Castiel pushes him away.

Something vaguely disbelieving stirs in his stomach.

“We can’t,” He shakes his head. “You’re—” He gestures to Dean, “you’re drunk, and emotionally compromised. And—and for the past decade, I was convinced you were _straight._ For all I know, you still _are—”_

“Look at the notebook,” Dean shakes his head. He throws another item at Castiel. “Look at _that._ You’ve seen it before—you played it the night—the night things fell apart. I made it for you. I left it in my car by mistake—I was gonna give it to you—to tell you—”

Castiel looks down at it.

The first dozen or so tracks are written in one colour pen, consistent, on the label. Then the hand begins to change, the pen colour, the smudges.

“Then you left, and every year, I’d add a song,” Dean swallows. “Every year… Year in, year out, I’d—maybe I’d _sing_ one. Just to explain. ‘Thought… one day I’d see you again, and be able to give it to you, and apologise… But then Jimmy… And you came back, and you _hated_ me.”

Castiel’s chest is too tight to allow him even a thread of oxygen. He looks up at Dean.

“And the songs I wrote,” Dean says, with a sour kind of sadness, “—the ones I played in The Roadhouse? I wrote them for _you,_ Cas—they’re all in there,” He picks up the notebook clumsily from Cas’s lap and presses it firmly to the writer’s chest. “They’re all in there, and they’re all yours. And—and songs from like, fourteen _years_ ago. I wrote them for you. Anything good in there—it’s all ‘cause of _you—”_

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel can’t blink through his tears.

“You have to believe me—”

“I _do—”_

“And I know you don’t love me, any more—and I don’t blame you—but a piece of me thinks— _has_ to think—that if you knew, if you _really_ knew—if I could make you understand how I feel—how I’ve _always_ felt—”

“Dean,” Castiel’s hands find Dean’s shoulders, again, and he doesn’t know what he could possibly say next. But as he, ironically a writer, struggles for his words, his phone begins to ring, rattling in his pocket. He’s about to reject the call outright, but then remembers Ellen and why it is he actually went out _looking_ for Dean in the first place. If this is her, then she’ll be worried sick about Dean and where he is.

Sure enough, it’s an unknown number, and Castiel doesn’t have Ellen’s.

Also sure enough, there’s a panicked woman asking about Dean is at the other end of the phone.

What’s surprising is that it’s Mary Winchester.

_“Castiel? Castiel, oh thank God you answered—is Dean there? Is he with you?”_

“Yes,” Castiel answers, frowning. Dean stares at him, lips parted. Castiel can still taste those lips on his tongue. His breath is laboured. “Why?”

 _“Oh my God, Castiel—”_ Mary begins to sob. _“Oh God—tell him to get to the hospital—please? Please. Please, Castiel—I—it’s Sammy—it’s Sam, he’s—”_

Castiel hardly hears the rest of the sentence. Panic and shock had already numbed his system, after Dean telling him—well, everything, apparently. But now they shut it down completely.

He looks up at Dean. Dean, who he knows hears everything Mary says. Dean, who’s mouth hangs open in terror. Dean, who’s been worrying about his brother for so long, Dean, who even now, will be blaming himself for all of this.

 _“—Sammy’s overdosed—Ruby called all in a panic and—that—_ idiot— _she—we’re in the hospital—she’s gone—the doctors—”_ Mary begins to sob. _“I tried calling Dean, but he’s not picking up! And Sammy—the doctors are saying—he’s not looking good—”_

Dean turns and vomits into the bag Castiel provided him. This time it seems more out of shock than drunkenness.

“I’ll get him there,” Castiel says, quickly, firmly. “It’ll—it’ll be fine, Mary. We’ll be there, so soon, and it’ll all be fine. I promise. Okay?”

_“Oh, Castiel—”_

“That’s a promise,” Castiel shakes his head. “Please, don’t—it’ll be fine. Don’t panic. I promise.”

Mary says something about texting the details of where the emergency ward Sammy is in is, but Castiel hardly pays attention. He hangs up, and stares at Dean, who stares back at him, expression a mess, and petrified.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean slurs, and seems suddenly drunker than ever.

“Grab your things,” Castiel says, getting up quickly and helping Dean when he stumbles, and with silent urgency, drags Dean out the door, down the front porch, to the car. Dean’s legs move with the stiffness of one in total shock. Castiel can hardly blame him.

Inside the car, Dean has gone silent with it. He breathes thinly and stares at the road ahead of him. Then he starts fumbling with his hands. His breathing grows a little quicker.

“’S’my fault,” He says thickly, after whole minutes of nothing. Castiel frowns at him.

“It’s not,” He shakes his head quickly. “How could it possibly—”

“I knew he had a problem,” Dean raises his voice, still unable to look anywhere but the road, “I knew he was taking it again, and instead of helping him fix it, I _turned_ on him! I abandoned him, Cas—he needed a friend, he needed a brother, and I left him! I’m the worst big brother—I’m _not_ a brother—he needed help, he didn’t need me to fuck up, _again._ I yelled at him, I’ve ruined him, I did it _this morning._ It’s on me,” Dean shakes his head, “It’s all on me.”

Castiel’s eyes begin to swim. He blinks hard.

“It’s not,” He says, again. “Please—”

“I was so selfish,” Dean ignores him. “I—I—was so distracted with Jimmy being dead, and how much I missed you—I couldn’t notice my own brother, right in front of me, my junkie brother who needed someone there for him… Needed _me_ there for him,” Dean groans, despairing, weeping. “What have I done?” He asks, running his hands roughly over his face. “What kind of man am I? I’m no good, Cas, I’m—what was the last thing I said to Sammy?” He asks, breath catching in his throat, and new kind of terror flashing across his eyes. “What if he—” He stops, unable to finish.

“It’ll be fine, Dean,” Castiel shakes his head. “I promise, okay? That promise is on me—so if it isn’t kept, if things aren’t okay, _I’ve_ broken _my_ promise, and none of this is your fault—it’s mine. How does that sound? It’ll be okay—and it _will_ be—but if it isn’t, you blame it on me. Because I didn’t keep my word.”

Dean finally looks over to Castiel.

Tears continue to trace their way down his cheeks.

“Please believe what I told you,” He says. Castiel is the one unable to breathe, this time. He looks away. “I know I’m drunk,” Dean shakes his head, wiping his tears, “I know I can’t walk and keep puking and passing out—but I’m not lying. I’ll remember all of this tomorrow—I swear. Tell me then if you believe me?”

Castiel nods.

He blinks out his tears. It’s a relief as they fall from his eyes.

“I will.”

When they pull into the hospital, Dean pukes again, onto the curb. It’s completely liquid and a strange, acidic colour; Castiel doubts very much whether he’ll remember any of the night, after all.

Ellen is waiting for them at the entrance. Her face is damp and wrung out with worry and Dean’s drunkenness hardly affects her. She hugs Castiel with fierce gratefulness and drags them through the corridors to where Sam’s ward is.

“You can’t see him,” Ellen shakes her head. “He’s reacted badly to the Naloxone, gone into full withdrawal—he’s _fine,_ Dean, sit down—” Dean almost collapses onto the floor, Castiel gets down beside him and holds his hands, “he’ll live, it’s fine—they, uh—we’ll see, about nerve damage, brain damage… But he’s alive. It’s okay.”

Dean practically seeps into the wall, nodding silently, still crying.

“And _you,”_ She hits him, expression flashing from tender and reassuring to one of motherly fury, “ _why_ weren’t you at work? Why did you get _drunk?”_

“I’m sorry,” Dean shakes his head, looking up at her hopelessly. He doesn’t seem to have an answer. Ellen sits on the other side of him. She takes one of Dean’s hands from Castiel and squeezes it.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” She shakes her head with watery eyes, obviously fighting to keep her own tumultuous feelings at bay.

Dean snorts bitterly.

“No, really,” She shakes her head, pulling Dean’s own head onto her shoulder. Castiel watches, heart aching. “I was so worried,” She tears up. “And then, Sammy—and—oh, Dean,” She moves to hug him properly. “Thank you so much, Castiel,” She looks over to the writer, but Castiel’s lips twitch up, almost bitterly, and he brushes it off.

“It was about time I was a good friend to him,” He states, squeezing Dean’s hand one last time and getting up. “Do you want a drink, Ellen? Coffee, tea—hot chocolate?”

Ellen lets out a teary laugh.

“Oh, Castiel,” She beams up at him though watery eyes.

“Where’s mom?” Dean asks, voice muffled by Ellen’s shoulder. With the trauma of the day, he sounds almost _childish,_ curled up against Ellen.

The woman who, upon her answer, prompts Castiel to think that _she_ is more of a mother to Dean than Mary Winchester has been, for more than twenty years, allows her expression to darken.

Her answer quakes in her mouth, a moment—out of anger?—before it makes it past her lips.

“She, uh—Mary was upset, when Sammy came here—and I think, angry she couldn’t contact you—it’s not your fault, darling,” Ellen adds quickly cradling the side of Dean’s face, “but—”

“Of course it’s not,” Castiel scowls. “ _Mary’s_ Sam’s mother, not Dean.”

Ellen shoots him a grateful look, but continues,

“When they said Sammy was gonna be okay—going to live, obviously going to live, I mean—she shot off, drove away, said she needed to clear her head, and to keep her updated. That was—it was just before you arrived. She told me to wait for you.”

“She left you here?”

“Jo is here, too,” Ellen states. “But she—it was a bit overwhelming—Anna’s with her. She’s just calming down. She’ll be back, soon. It’s—” Ellen stops, expression warming. “It’s your Anna,” She explains. “Anna Milton?” She nods to herself. “It’s good Anna’s with her, I think.”

Castiel falters.

Anna?

But curiosity at this is subsumed by fury with Mary Winchester, and her abandoning of both her sons. In more ways than one, it would seem.

“I’m going to go get drinks,” He shakes his head, determined to cool himself off. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee, for me,” Ellen smiles gratefully up at him, still on the floor, with Dean still leaning on her. The bright lighting of the corridor makes a ringing noise begin in Castiel’s head. “I need to get through the night, and I want to be awake for updates. No coffee for this one, though,” She gestures to Dean, at her side. Is he—has he fallen asleep? The writer cannot help but be grateful for it—this’ll be easier on him, if it passes quicker, and it’ll pass quicker if he’s unconscious for most of it. Alongside this relief, his heart all but melts inside his chest at the sight of Dean Winchester, utterly out of it. How long had it been, before tonight, since he’d seen Dean sleeping? And how much did he love the flutter of those chestnut eyelashes, the parted lips, the curling limbs, before? How much more does he love them, _now?_

Now, after he’s learnt of all that Dean is, all that he’s done—all that he _did,_ for Castiel?

Now, after Castiel has grown for nine years, had convinced himself he cared nothing for Dean any more, that those feelings were a chapter of his past he had no need to return to, after convincing himself that beyond hate, he felt nothing more than blind _indifference_ to the boy with green and glittering eyes who lived in the house opposite his for fourteen years, it took Dean all of two months to convince Castiel he was wrong in every possible respect.

And, mortifyingly, more in love than ever.

“Will Jo want anything?”

“I think Anna’s taking good care of her,” Ellen answers honestly. Right. Of course. _Anna._ Castiel nods.

“Great,” He says, still a little nonplussed, and wanders off.

So when Anna had said she’d been going out, tonight, that was—with Jo? Were they meeting with other friends?

His head is racing with too much information, already, to quite be able to process anything.

There’s a café at the hospital’s entrance, and it fortunately looks as though it runs night shifts.

He orders a coffee for Ellen, a camomile for himself, and a hot chocolate for Dean—in case he comes around. The sugar will probably do him good, if this is the case, after everything, it’s unlikely he has anything left in his system, and Castiel is hardly surprised the oldest Winchester is crashing quite so hard that he’s able to fall asleep on the floor.

At Castiel’s return, Dean is still asleep. The writer places Ellen’s drink in front of her, along with Dean’s, and finds a chair to sit on.

“Floor not good enough for you, Castiel?” Ellen asks with a teasing laugh. Castiel smiles wryly.

“Dean looks happy enough with you. Didn’t want to crowd.”

“I don’t think he’d’ve minded your company,” Ellen answers, as though this comment is of little consequence, but Castiel’s face heats to temperatures paralleling those of the sun. He finds Dean’s notebook in the pocket of his trenchcoat and places it on the seat next to him, heart stuttering, unsure of what to do with it. After a while, Jo returns, with puffy eyes, and sits down beside her mother.

“Just said goodbye to Anna,” She says quietly. “She told me to keep her updated. She’ll call in the morning.”

“That’s kind of her,” Ellen wraps her free arm around her daughter, squeezing. Jo nods in agreement.

“She _is.”_

Dean doesn’t wake, and so Jo drinks his hot chocolate. They talk quietly. Castiel zones in and out. He gets a book out on his phone and reads it, but eventually runs low on battery.

Then he prays.

After about two hours, Castiel picks up Dean’s notebook.

One look can’t hurt. And these songs _are_ for him. Right?

He opens on a page towards the end.

 _I lost my place_  
I’ve lost my place.  
Because of you I’ve lost my place.  
I close my eyes, I see your face.  
Remember how you used to trace  
Old sticks through dirt?  
I was the dirt. I was the space  
You left behind, that bore your mark,  
A carving on the soil. You’d pace  
Ahead, you’re far away, the space  
You left between was me; retrace  
Your steps and find me here, embrace  
Me like I don’t deserve, and trace  
Your hands over my cheeks, my face  
Will crumple, so will I. The space  
Between will smooth away, erase  
My words nine years ago, erase  
My wrongs by you: I lost my place  
Nine years ago, I’ve seen your face  
In every moment since. I chase  
You in my dreams, I see your face,  
I’ve lose my place,  
I need your grace.

Castiel turns the page.

 _Best friend, once upon a time,_  
For no reason and no rhyme,  
Except that I could call you mine.  
You had to go, I had to stay,  
Life always takes the good away:  
You were too good to simply say  
Goodbye, you left in thunder:  
All that’s left’s for me to wonder  
If forever I’ll be under  
My own mind, too big by far  
Without you here, and made of tar.  
I was the traveller, you the star,  
You’ve left me in the darkness here  
With nothing but a final fear:  
I was what made you disappear.

Castiel opens to a page at random.

 _A sea, a sea,_  
The sea is you,  
You are the sea.  
All I see is you,  
You’re all I see:  
The sea, and you,  
And you, and me.

Another page.

 _I played a song I thought you’d like._  
You didn’t, or you didn’t know  
Just what it meant, you didn’t show  
That you recalled. I played it slow,

 _It was me, and all for you_  
And I was asking, pleading you,  
If you could be all that to me  
You had once promised just to be  
But you were with another guy  
I couldn’t even ask you why.

 _The song was for you,_  
This song is for you,  
They’re all for you,  
You make me blue,  
Just like your eyes,  
Just like goodbyes,  
You make me blue,  
You’ve left me, blue.

Another.

 _One day, when you’re slowing down_  
Come back here, to your old home town.  
Settle right across the street,  
And life will never taste so sweet.

 _You were my Sunshine, and please know_  
That you still are. Come back and slow  
My aging heart, come back,  
Come back, my soul’s turned black.

 _My soul’s turned black, but yours still gleams_  
It shimmers out in vast sunbeams;  
I was the lock, you were the key,  
Please say I’m still your honeybee.

Another:

 _If I say I never broke you heart,_  
Will you say the same for mine?  
If I say we shouldn’t be apart,  
Will you say it’ll all be fine?

 _Nobody tastes quite like you,_  
Nobody sounds just like you,  
Loving you was all I ever knew,  
All I wanted was for you to love me, too,  
I’ve lied but I know what you said was true,  
Please come back if you can say that you still do.

_Please come back if you can say that you still do._

Castiel looks up, eyes watering.

Oh, Dean.

_Oh, Dean._

He casts his eyes over to the sleeping form of his once-best friend—no, still best friend; always best friend. The man who gave up everything, for a tangle of selfless reasons: that he couldn’t make Castiel stay, and that he couldn’t let himself be happy.

Oh Dean.

Castiel’s eyes burn.

Loving Dean is easy, it’s a habit, now—insofar as breathing is a habit of Castiel’s.

_Please come back if you can say that you still do._

Oh, Dean—of course, of course—nothing but Dean, paradoxically, has ever been so familiar and easy, even in all his impulsiveness and energy, even in his unpredictability and flame, in the growl of his voice and the tenderness of his affection, in his frankness and total silence, for nine years, of how he really felt. _Dean, Dean, Dean._ And Castiel—how could he have been such a fool, for so long?

He stows the notebook back in his pocket. It’s wrong that he should be reading it, no matter the addictive agony it draws from him to read and reread these simple, perfect, earnest words—but as he does so, his finger catches on another piece of paper folded neatly there. He pulls it out, and doesn’t know if he feels surprised at the sight of his father’s letter. He’d almost forgotten about it, with the chaos of the night—but now he looks at it, it seems to weigh more than all the books in the world, and causes his heart to cramp up inside his chest. His father’s final, unknowing words to Castiel. He trembles with it, and everything he knows now, and wipes his eyes.

Reading the letter here doesn’t even seem like a bad place to see what Jimmy, at what has become the end of all things, had to say to his youngest son on an ordinary day in an extra-ordinary letter.

Castiel sits down on the ground, beside Dean, who is still unstirring. Ellen glances over to him and smiles softly.

“You okay, sweetie?” She asks. Castiel’s eyes mist; he can hardly see her. He nods.

Then, for whatever reason, he decides to explain.

“This is the last letter my dad wrote me,” He holds it up, trembling ever so slightly. He can’t seem to swallow.

Ellen’s expression sweeps with sympathy.

“Oh, honey,” She says, gently. “That’s hard.”

“Yeah,” Castiel looks down at the letter, holding it in his lap. “Yeah, it is.”

“I was gonna go ask a nurse how things’re looking—but if you want me to stay—”

“No, that’s fine,” Castiel shakes his head, rinsing the tears off his face with is palm. “This is important. I’ll stay here.” He glances over to Jo, who’s fast asleep, too. “Someone ought to—y’know—look out for these two. And in return I guess they’ll look after me,” He laughs shortly. Ellen’s face reshapes into one she wears only for Dean, Jo, and Sam.

“Okay, Castiel, if you’re sure.” She gets up gently, neither Jo nor Dean wake—Dean is far too far gone, and Jo only stirs. Ellen leaves her jacket behind so Jo has something to rest her head on. “Call me, if you need anything, okay? Or if you realise you’re _not_ fine.”

Castiel nods, pulling what he hopes is a reassuring expression.

“I will,”—Though it’s unlikely this would quite constitute a _promise._

He looks down at the letter in his hand as Ellen leaves.

And then, the possibility of breath escaped into some vast unknown, he opens it and begins to read.

The sweep of his father’s hand crushes his insides and leaves him caving in on himself.

_Castiel, my darling youngest._

_I thought a letter was long overdue, and, as you’re so busy, you can read this whenever you like and I can fill you in on things down my end without subjecting you to an exhausting phone call. When was the last time I wrote? Two months ago, at least—like I said, it’s long overdue._

_I’ve just finished your latest book. Dear, dear Castiel, I’m so proud of you. What a thing to do, to imagine people and worlds and lives and commit them to paper! I talk of it, and you, with anyone who’ll listen. I hope you’ll always count me among your biggest, and most devoted fans. Your dear mother, if she could say so, would be the proudest woman in the world. Your books read like liquid gold. There’s nothing softer or sweeter to me._

_I hope that, even when you finally make films of your stories, even when your head is giddy with wealth and fame (which I’m glad to know have never mattered to you) you remember me and all the people you love, have loved, will always love. I’m so feverishly proud of your dedication and passion, to your work and to your life. Keep doing what you love. Keep loving, and love many things, and be unafraid to ache and burn and allow yourself to be open to the world and its breaking of you—for therein lies the true strength: in breaking, in loving, and aching, we might come to know G-d. And, when hurt by the world or its inhabitants, or both, know that healing cannot come by closing oneself off to those that did the hurting. There is nothing in this life that I regret, save not teaching this to you better—apart, perhaps, from Gabriel’s career—and aside from that, there is nothing left that I could possibly desire, but that you could learn to search your heart and speak to it—and others—with complete honesty._

_I know that you find it crude and painful to speak on, so I’ll be brief and reiterate a point I hope I’ve made clear the entirety of your days: I love you more dearly than formal words may ever do justice—justice to you, or to my devotion to you. I hope you become a father, one day, and come to understand every depth of joy and sorrow I feel for all your tears and smiles. I spoke to Dean, today—or yesterday, as I write this now at 1 AM, unable, again, to convince myself it’s night, and therefore time for sleep. He misses you, I think; and nine years—or near enough—are more than sufficient time to go without talking to a boy (man, now, I suppose) who once meant so much to you. And, Castiel, I think that_ you _miss_ him _. When I next see you—which is very soon, I do hope—I hope you’ll see_ him, _too, and talk._

 _At times, and indeed for whole stretches of it, life may seem cruel and unfriendly; you may find yourself reeling with undeserved hurt. Please forgive it, anyway. Life is good, its people are good, you can and will do so,_ so _much good for G-d, for the world, and for the people in it. You already have. I’m glad to have been blessed with having you as a son, so please do not resent having me as your nosy, vocal father. We forget our dreams at our own peril, and yours have always been more precious and valuable to me, as your father, than beaten gold. Don’t forget them._

_I can’t wait to see you, soon, to have you in my arms, at home again._

_Please remember where home is._

_Your ever loving father._

_P.S: an update on my end: the garden’s been flourishing all summer. Next time you’re over, I’ll cook you something made only from what’s growing in our vegetable patch. How does that sound?_

_As ever,_  
And with all my love,  
Jimmy, Dad, etc.

Castiel is hollowed out.

He reads and rereads in perfect agony. What a terrible thing to be given; what a quaking, bitter, unspoiled gift to be given, in providence, by the God Jimmy loved so much.

He bites out a sob. The music of his soul has turned glassy. He mourns, for the first time, he realises, like his father would have wanted. Utterly raw.

Dean stirs.

“What’s up?”

Castiel presses a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out in total heartbreak.

“I miss my dad,” He says, and it’s not enough, it could never be enough, to do it justice—but he can’t say any more, and it doesn’t matter: Dean, totally unaware, half-asleep, curls round him.

“Me too.” Dean squeezes his body. “Me too. Always.”

And is asleep again.

Castiel weeps and holds Dean’s body and the letter for a while longer.

Ellen returns. She has two cups of coffee.

“Figured you might need it,” She chuckles, and, seeing Castiel’s tears, kneels down and pulls him in for a fierce hug. “Oh, Castiel, honey,” She squeezes tight, and Castiel cries into her shoulder.

“Sorry,” He shakes his head, but of course, Ellen won’t allow it. “Did you find anyone? What’s being said? How’s Sam?”

Ellen pulls back and nods, hand still on Castiel’s arm.

“Yeah—he’s recovering—he’s awake, but not—”

Dean stirs again, as if on cue.

“What’s up?” He asks. It sounds as though his mouth is uncomfortably dry. He blinks, Ellen gives him her coffee, which he drinks gratefully, though clumsily, then seems confused about where he is, why he’s on the floor, why Ellen, Jo and Castiel are here. Then re-memory floods his features, alongside a storm of panic. He bolts into sitting up, and doubles over, heaving.

“Nice hangover you’ve got there, Dean?” Ellen asks, raising her eyebrows. Jo rubs her eyes and rouses herself as Dean gags, practically stuffing his fist into his mouth.

“What—where’s Sammy? How—what’s happened? Where is he? _How_ is he? How long have I been out for? Is Sam okay?” Dean asks in a flurry of questions as soon as he has recovered himself, gasping.

“Sammy’s okay,” Ellen shakes her head, reassuring Dean with a touch. “He’s come to, they’re saying he’s awake and able to ask questions. He’s got a room to himself, they’re saying we can see him, real soon. He overdosed, if you can’t remember that, but he’s fine now. Feeling awful, but fine. I don’t know what kind of awful. They’re gonna come and tell us, when we can go see him. You’ve been asleep for a little over four hours, which is good going, if you ask me.”

“Oh,” Dean nods, looking away. “Okay,” He swallows, apparently slightly reassured. “That’s good, I guess.”

He scrubs his face with his hands.

“You’ve had a lot to take in. It’s okay if it takes a little while longer.”

It may take longer still, by the looks of things.

Dean looks up.

“Where’s mom?” He asks. There’s something in his voice. Curious, but angry, but calm, like he somehow already knows the answer. Ellen winces. Dean looks away. “Of course…” He mutters.

“She’ll be back soon,” Ellen says, quickly, attempting to sooth.

“When did she say that?” Dean snorts, getting up and clicking several bones, stretching out each of his limbs with a wince.

“…Nearly five hours ago,” Ellen admits. Dean laughs bitterly, again.

“She can stay gone,” He says, frankly, so frankly in fact that both Ellen and Castiel recoil. Jo frowns.

“Dean,” She attempts to reason, but Dean cuts her off.

“No, I mean it,” He shakes his head emphatically. “She’s done nothing, all this time—fat lot of nothin’—and I know I haven’t been a good big brother. But the difference is, _I’m_ gonna make amends for it. Is _she?”_

“You never know—”

“No, I _do_ know,” Dean shakes his head. “But I don’t care any more. You know? I’ve realised. What’s the point?” He huffs and sits down, next to Castiel, who cannot help but stare, wondering.

_Do you know? Do you remember?_

Dean isn’t acting like he can; he couldn’t remember that his mom had left, isn’t _acting_ like he remembers anything… But then, _would_ he? In front of everyone?

But then, ‘everyone’ consists only of Ellen, Jo and Castiel. Dean surely wouldn’t worry about _them_ reacting badly.

Especially when—was Jo—

A nurse arrives.

Dean stands up so quickly it makes _Castiel’s_ head spin.

“Sam’s family?” She asks.

“Near enough,” Ellen nods, standing.

 _“Definitely_ enough,” Dean corrects, fiercely. “Where is he? Can we see him?”

“You can ask,” She confirms. “But—you’re Dean, I guess?” She raises her eyebrows. Dean nods, the fear scrawled across his features. “He’s been asking for you, non-stop,” She smiles, something warm and gentle. “Seems pretty anxious to see his big brother.” Dean is so obviously affected by this Castiel feels guilt at not being more astute and standing by him to be another comforter. “He’s just this way,” She turns and heads back in the direction she came from, Dean following after her in antsy movements. Castiel isn’t sure if moving by his side to speak to him would be an infringement, or an act of friendship received with gratitude. Dean has always had tunnel vision when it comes to Sammy. Why should now be any different?

The green eyed man glances back at Castiel, who offers a shy smile. Dean slows down his pacing to walk alongside the writer.

“I’m, uh—I’m sorry for last night,” Dean says, face red, rubbing his neck. “I don’t—and thank you for staying. You obviously, uh—”

“I wanted to stay, Dean,” Castiel shakes his head. “It’s nothing, really.”

“No, I mean it,” Dean shakes his head in the bright lighting of the hospital corridor. “You’re flying halfway across the world in a couple of days, but you still—”

“This matters,” Castiel shakes his head, and stops himself just short of saying, _You matter._

As if catching the thread of his thoughts, Dean asks,

“What happened, last night?” With a steady, inquisitive, slightly embarrassed frown. “I don’t—I don’t remember much…”

“Well,” Castiel frowns, “—How—how much do you remember?”

“Me—uh—not going to work, and getting drunk, and then, kind of, me gettin’ into a fight—”

“Yeah, what happened there?” Castiel asks with a frown. “You never told me. Why did you get caught up in whatever it was?”

“I didn’t tell you?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head.

Dean swallows.

“Good,” He nods.

“What?”

“No,” Dean says, quickly, “I mean, it was nothin’ I was bein’ dumb and drunk,” He looks away, laughing nervously. “You know how I am.”

“You didn’t do that kind of thing when we were kids…” Castiel points out. Dean ignores him.

“And I—I remember gettin’ thrown out, and hitting the curb, and then… kind of you? And me being sick, and waiting in the car—why was I waiting?”

“I was getting your things from inside.”

“My bag!” Dean exclaims, face flaming and made alive with a second of panic. “Where is it? I’ve got—important—”

“It’s in my car,” Castiel says quickly. “I made sure it got here, safe.”

“Okay, good,” Dean nods quickly.

“…What’s it got in it?” Castiel asks, tentatively, after a moment, unable to resist the stubborn curl of curiosity of how Dean will answer this, within him.

Dean glances away.

“Aw, y’know—teacher stuff, uh, essays that need grading… That kind of thing…”

Castiel nods, looking down.

“Right. Well. Do you—do you remember anything else?”

They stop walking. The nurse is obviously waiting for Dean.

“Uh,” He winces, rubbing his jaw, then frowns. “I remember crying in your car… Why was that?”

“For Sam,” Castiel answers quickly. Dean nods, faking memory.

“Oh—yeah—of course. Good. I didn’t—uh—I don’t know,” He laughs nervously, “I didn’t do—or say—anything embarrassing, right?”

Castiel stares at Dean, who is obviously nervous.

And now isn’t the time to tell him the full story—Dean really can’t remember a thing about what happened between him and Castiel _—_ and Castiel really doesn’t know if it’s right for him to share, right now.

“Nothing at all,” He shakes his head. “I was just, um, glad I found you. Really, honestly glad. And I still am.”

Dean stares at him for a moment.

 _Now,_ Castiel knows what that look means. He understands the slope of those brows, the slump of those shoulder, the hopeless, tender eyes, the parted lips. It almost kills him.

“Mr Winchester, if you’re ready?” One of the nurses asks. Dean snaps out of his stupor. His gaze flickers to the nurse reluctantly.

“Right, yeah,” He nods, distracted. “Sorry, yeah,” And goes in.

The room Sam is in seems pretty soundproof, but has large windows so that Castiel can see Dean sitting tentatively, though reassuredly, down beside his brother’s bed.

He turns to Ellen and Jo. Even watching this feels like an invasion.

“Sam will want to see both of you, more than me,” He says, smartly. “Obviously. I’ve kind of—done what I came for, if that makes sense. I don’t know how much more use I’ll be, just hanging around—”

“—Castiel—” Ellen tries, but the writer brushes her off.

“Sam should be with family—”

“— _You’re_ family—”

“Maybe once,” Castiel acknowledges, “but I haven’t been, recently—not like I should have been. I’ll come back, soon, but—”

“Please don’t go,” Jo shakes her head. “Sam won’t mind, and _Dean—”_

Castiel actually _flushes_ at his name.

“I really need some sleep…” He tries.

“Well, all I know is you _can’t_ clear off without saying goodbye to Dean, first,” Jo crosses her arms, expression set and heavy. “You know what he’s like. You know how he’d interpret it if you fucked off—”

 _“Jo!”_ Ellen hisses, but something in her manner indicates she hardly cares.

“—back to your house without explaining why, without _acknowledging_ him—that’s all he wants! A goodbye!”

Castiel sighs and sits down on the floor.

“Since when do _you_ know what he wants…” He mutters. But already, Jo knows she’s won. Castiel’s brain is turning foggy with exhaustion and overstimulation; the lights here hardly help, they make his skull feel tight. Everything is too bright, too intense. And now, since the immediate danger has passed, now that Sammy is safe, Castiel wants nothing more than to shut down.

He’s had a hell of a night.

“I’m… gonna sleep here, then…”

He mumbles, curling his knees up to his chest, at which Jo laughs, and sits down next to him.

“Here,” She says, handing Castiel her coat. “Use it as a blanket, or a cushion, or whatever. Since you were such a good guardian angel to me and Dean, while _we_ slept.”

“Oh,” Castiel murmurs. His breathing slows. “Thank you, I—”

“That’s okay, Cassie,” She ruffles Castiel’s hair, and Castiel marks the strangely renewed affection of the touch. Is this what spending six hours in a hospital with someone does to you? To your friendship with them?

He doesn’t pursue the thought much longer—he slips into a kind of strange, half-asleep, half-awake state where he paces up and down a blackened room.

_“Tell Dean what he said”_

_“No! Don’t! He’ll react badly.”_

_“You don’t_ know _that.”_

_“Yes you do! You’ve known him for two and a half decades.”_

_“Why would he react badly if you told him that you loved him, too?”_

_“Because he’s got a lot on his plate. He’s got a lot on his plate, and leave him alone. Stop bothering him. Stop bothering_ me.”

 _“What’s he got on his plate? What’s he doing that’s_ so _important, he can’t stand to hear his best friend tell him he loved him?”_

 _“That was—a mess of gender pronouns. Tell who they love which? And his brother just overdosed on heroin, so he’s got_ that _on his plate, to name one thing. Quite a big thing, too, if you ask me.”_

_“That’s nothing—”_

_“Nothing?! Then, there’s the fact his mom left him,_ again, literally _this time—and he has to play mother, and father, and brother, to his little brother, when he’s already got so much going on—”_

_“So much? What else?”_

“Jimmy _died. His father-figure. The only person he really trusted—“_

 _“He trusted_ you _—“_

 _“Trust_ ed. _Past tense.”_

_“So get his trust back! Tell him how you feel!”_

_“No! Jimmy’s dead, he hasn’t processed it—not properly—and that’s_ my _fault—_ our _fault—”_

_“Whose fault?”_

_“Yours and mine. Stop interrupting. Dean_ needs _a friend, right now. He thinks I’m leaving for good, and—and maybe I shouldn’t.”_

 _“Oh,_ finally, _you’re at least admitting to_ that! _How long have I been telling you it was a shitty idea?”_

 _“Long enough, I admit it, okay? But—anyway—Dean thinks I’m leaving him—and… Maybe I’m not? Maybe I can’t? Not like_ that, _anyway… I mean, I’ll have to go back to Edinburgh for work, but that doesn’t mean I can’t call, check up on him, like I always should have been doing, all along…”_

_“Well, it’s not your fault…”_

_“But maybe I was_ never _ready to sell the house, and I was just being stubborn and stupid… It wouldn’t be the first time…”_

 _“He left_ you, _remember?”_

_“Well, yes…”_

_“Exactly.”_

_“And no…”_

_“Wait, what?”_

_“I’ve been a bad friend to him. I have. And he needs a friend, right now. Not a boyfriend. Not a lover. Definitely not a brooding, distant figure from the past. Dean needs a friend. It’s about time I_ was _one.”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_“It means if I were to make a move on him, now, I’d be a shitty person.”_

_“Ugh! I can’t believe you!”_

_“Dean needs a friend. I can be that friend. I_ will.”

Castiel wakes up with a start.

“Dude,” Dean laughs, bemused, leaning out of the open door to where Sammy lies. “What’re you doin’ down there?”

“Sleeping…” Castiel frowns, rubbing his eyes. “Which shouldn’t be so comical to _you,_ Dean, since you spent so much of tonight, asleep on the floor, too.”

Dean snorts.

Castiel remembers where he is.

“How is he?” He asks quickly, sitting up. Dean’s expression washes with—fuck—adoration? As he gazes at Castiel?

“He wants to see you,” Dean smiles. “Come on in.” And then, “If you think you’re awake enough,” With a smirk.

Castiel rolls his eyes and gets up. Jo moves to find a chair, now that the writer has gone from the floor. Castiel enters Sam’s room feeling as awkward as he’s sure he must look.

“Sam,” He nods, hovering at the door. “I, uh—I’m glad you’re—”

“I said he wanted you _in,_ Cas, not _out,”_ Dean rolls his eyes, and Castiel steps into the room properly, apologetically, closing the door behind him.

“Thank you, Sam…” He isn’t quite sure what to say, or why Sam wanted him here.

“No,” Sam shakes his head, “it’s me and Dean _,_ who should be thanking _you.”_

Castiel fidgets uncomfortably.

Sam has several tubes feeding into him—the crook of his elbow, his wrist, his nose. He looks tired and pale, his skin is sallow. Bags indented under his eyes. He looks worse than he did when Castiel saw him last, which is unsurprising.

“Take a seat,” Sam gestures to the empty chair, beside Dean’s. Castiel hovers a moment, uncertain.

“I really—this is time for you and Dean—and I should get some sleep—”

“You’re not gonna let a junkie thank you for saving his brother’s life?” Sam asks with a hoarse laugh. Castiel softens. His eyes swim with tears.

“You’re not a junkie…”

Sam gestures to the tubes covering him.

“Sure looks that way, huh?”

“And I didn’t _save_ Dean—”

But Sam won’t allow it.

“Siddown, Cas.”

The writer does as he’s told.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” He says, staring at the younger Winchester brother.

“Yeah…” Sam shifts, shame eking onto his face. “I’m sorry if I had you all worried—”

“Hey,” Dean shakes his head, reaching out to run a hand over Sam’s forehead. “You’re worth worrying about.”

The hazel eyes of Dean’s younger brother mist with tears. He looks away.

“Anyway,” He says, “I wanted to let you know, I’m grateful. And, uh—best of luck, in your new home. I guess this might be the last time we see each other, for a while, at least?”

Castiel frowns.

“What?”

Sam imitates the expression.

“With, y’know, you moving, and all? Selling your old home?”

Dean looks uncomfortable. Castiel glances at him.

“Oh,” He says. “I’d—completely forgotten.” And he had. “How did you know about that?”

“Dean told me,” Sam gestures to his older brother with his thumb, a minute motion, while Dean’s cheeks, ears and neck flame.

“Oh—well—” Castiel shakes his head. _So_ much is going on in his brain right now. Couldn’t the universe just ease up on him a bit? “No,” He says.

“No?” Sam pulls a puzzled expression.

“I’m not—I think—I won’t sell,” Castiel says, glancing at Dean for just a microsecond, who shifts forward in his seat, eyes wide.

“Wait—really?” Dean asks, then reddens as he realises he speaks.

Castiel looks at him and nods.

“I—I think it was a foolish decision,” He answers, honestly. “And one I made too quickly. I was being—well. Me.”

“You?”

“I wasn’t listening to the advice of my brothers,” Castiel replies. “Or, I suppose, the advice of my heart.” He looks at Dean, then at the floor. Dean’s gaze presses onto the side of his face all the while. “But I am, now…” He says, softly. He looks up. “I am, now,” He nods. “But—Sam—I can’t believe we’re talking about me _moving._ How’re you feeling?”

Sam ignores him.

“So you’re not selling, then?” He asks.

Castiel grumbles.

“Not selling—for now, at least.”

“Okay,” This seems to appease Sam only marginally, but he drops it.

“How’re you feeling, Sam?” Castiel presses. The younger Winchester looks up again.

“Oh,” He laughs, “just… swell.”

“Don’t be an ass, Sammy,” Dean scowls. _“You_ invited him in here.”

“You really wanna know?” Sam raises his eyebrows at Castiel, who nods sincerely. Sam laughs.

“Then fuck, I feel like death. Goddamn awful. Like my insides are being dragged through a shredder, and my brain is being sanded, and half of everything’s cold, but half of everything else is, like, _solar_ temperatures.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Sam shrugs. _“I_ did this to myself. Not you.”

“But I’m still sorry for it.”

The sentiment seems to comfort Sam.

“Could be worse,” He shrugs. “I’m, uh, not dead,” He says, grimly, “and I have my brother here, and my friends,” He gestures outside the windows of the room, to where Ellen and Jo are situated. Castiel notices the uncomfortable absence of Sam and Dean’s mother in this list of honourable mentions. “And hey, Dean’s hungover! So I’m in good company, regarding the whole, feeling like a shitstain, thing.”

“Yeah, talk a little quieter, please, Sam,” Dean grimaces. Sam cracks a smile, this one sincere.

“Anyway,” He turns back to Castiel. “You look tired. And I wanted to say thank you, which I have. Unless—” He turns to his brother, “do you have anything you’d like to say to Cas?”

“Uh,” Dean balks. “Yeah—thanks—I guess—I mean, of course—thanks, for everythin’—”

“It’s fine,” Castiel stands up, while Sam glares at his brother. “I’ll, uh—come back and visit, in a couple of hours? If that’s okay? With both of you?”

Sam looks back up at him.

“No problems here,” He smiles emphatically. Does he—does he _know?_ Well, that’s a stupid question, Castiel realises. Sam knows Dean inside and out—and so if Dean really _is_ in love with Castiel—

This thought nearly sends him reeling.

“No,” Dean agrees, shaking, then nodding his head. “No, yeah—no problems—we’d—I’d—yeah,” He nods. “Would be nice to see you.”

Castiel smiles.

“Then I’ll come over. See you soon.”

Dean gets up. Castiel is taken aback. So is Dean, apparently.

“Thank you, Cas,” Is all he says, staring intently at his friend. Castiel smiles, mouth closed, nods, and leaves. The door closes with a sense of strange finality behind him.

Jo and Ellen stand.

“He’s fine,” Castiel nods. “I think—he just wanted to thank me, for getting Dean here, safe. I’m really sorry, but I’m—”

“Go home,” Ellen nods emphatically. “Go to bed, get some sleep.”

“I’ll come back in a couple of hours—”

“Oh, Castiel,” Ellen wraps her arms around him and gives Castiel just about the tightest hug he thinks he’s ever experienced, and he has _Gabriel_ for a brother.

“It’s nothing,” He shakes his head, but Ellen pulses gratitude regardless. “It’s the least I could—” But Jo throws her arms around him, too. “Wow,” He chokes out. “Harvelle women really know how to hug, right?”

Both burst out laughing, and let him go—though not without one last squeeze, on Ellen’s part.

“Get some good rest, Castiel,” She says, with a warm smile.

“You should, too,” Castiel reminds. Ellen nods.

“I promise. See you soon.”

The walk back through the hospital happens in a daze—Castiel grabs some more coffee at the café, more grateful for its existence than ever, and gets in his car. As he does, he sits on something hard and rectangular.

He pulls it out.

Dean’s mixtape.

His fingers freeze.

He knows, he _knows,_ that if he’s gonna be a good friend to Dean, he’s gonna have to start compartmentalising: feelings for Dean are for _after_ Sam has recovered. Dean needs time to process everything that’s going on with his brother—and, thinking about all that Dean accidentally shared last night, his mental health really doesn’t seem good enough to be just… throwing himself into a relationship. No matter how badly Castiel wants it.

And he _does_ want it.

But this is what being a good friend to Dean is going to look like: _just_ being a good friend—for now. Calling and checking up on him, restoring what they lost nine years ago, caring for him… Castiel needs to do right by Dean.

Although, what harm can one little mixtape do? To say goodbye to that affection, or at least expressing it, for however long that takes?

Castiel puts the mixtape in, more grateful than ever that Dean persuaded him, when they were teenagers, not to upgrade Gabriel’s old car, which had been Michael’s old car, which had been their _dad’s_ old car, with a CD player, or worse still, an IPod jack.

He remembers the first song when it comes on, how confused and happy he was when it leaked out from Dean’s car’s speakers.

 _You're a part-time lover and a full-time friend,_  
The monkey on your back is the latest trend.  
I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but you.

 _I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of the train,_  
I kiss you all starry-eyed, my body swingin' from side to side.  
I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but you.

 _Here is the church and here is the steeple,_  
We sure are cute for two ugly people.  
I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but you.

 _The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me,_  
So, why can't you forgive me?  
I don't see what anyone can see in anyone else but you.

It’s a hipster song, Castiel can admit that, now, with a wry chuckle. But when Dean had played it—or rather, when Castiel had found that it was on a cassette, made by Dean, he was riddled with joy.

He starts up the car.

And the song rings true.

It was always Dean, only Dean.

Is this how Dean has felt towards him, too? For all this time?

The next song begins as he drives. His heart crawls up into his throat, remembering how the world froze at the touch of music upon Dean and Castiel’s minds. The song ends, and Castiel’s mind has become a storm.

Dean loves him. There’s no denying it, now. No way around it. And why on earth should that be a bad thing?

Right. Because Castiel lives in Edinburgh.

 _La Vie En Rose_ begins, Castiel is reminded of when Dean played it in The Roadhouse—now, he realises, for _him._

Balthazar was right when he called it one of the gayest songs out there, apparently. Well, a man was most definitely singing it for a man.

 _Stand by Me_ begins. Castiel holds on a little tighter to the steering wheel.

Castiel glances at the tracklist.

 _We Are Going To Be Friends,_ by The White Stripes; _Sweet,_ by Cigarettes After Sex; _Chances,_ by Athlete; _Tugboat,_ by Galaxie 500; _Sea of Love; Landslide—_ Castiel looks at the most recent track Dean has added to it, as he pulls onto his old road.

A name he doesn’t recognise.

 _Please Be Mine,_ Molly Burch. Dean has scrawled _‘cover’_ next to it.

Castiel turns the mixtape over and puts it on.

He’s surprised to hear Dean give an introduction to it.

_“So, uh—if you’re listening to this, then I got up the guts to give you my mixtape—and—I probably never will, so this is maybe more for myself than you, but…_

_“This song always reminded me of you. I say ‘always’—I mean, I’ve really only just listened to it—but it’s beautiful—I—yeah. Anyway. If you listen… Anyway. I hope you like it. Even, like, a grain of sand’s worth as much as I like you._ Love _you. Have always. Will… Anyway.”_ He says again. _“Here it is.”_

 _I told you once, I'll tell you again_  
You really are my very best friend  
But I, but I had to go, to go

 _Every time I think of you now_  
I get so blue somehow  
'Cause I, 'cause I still love you, love you

When it starts, Castiel begins to cry with longing, with the longing and loss that racks Dean’s voice, with the longing and loss that rack _him_ , in the knowledge that Dean spent nine years in _agony,_ thinking—well, knowing—that Castiel hated him. And all the while knowing the whole truth about everything, telling no one, and loving Castiel. Constantly. Does Castiel even deserve that? Could he ever, possibly? And could he possibly redeem himself, now, after everything? Dean _loves_ Castiel and it’s more like a weight crushing at everything Castiel is, has become, has inside him, than anything else. He’s missed his friend for so long, and had no idea how much exactly Dean missed him, too.

_Please be mine_

Dean’s voice cries, Castiel cries, sobs; he loses his mind in the front seat of his car.

 _I can feel the days grow cold_  
Boy, I'd love a hand to hold  
Is yours, is yours still for me, for me?

 _I know I don't deserve you back_  
But I'd really like it like that  
Would you, would you like it too, it too?

_Please be mine_

_Please be mine_

_Please be mine_

_Please be mine_

When the song is done, after a good five minutes of Castiel sobbing in his parked car on his own—with everything: the song, the exhaustion from the day, the night he’s had, nine years of loss uprooted and subverted, renewed grief for his father… He goes inside. He sets an alarm for four hours’ time. He’ll see Dean in four hours’ time. Carry on being there, for Dean, like he should. He collapses on his bed. Behind his closed eyes, he sees Dean’s face.

It doesn’t go away, even in his sleep.

It never will, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHHHHHHHH
> 
>  
> 
> well. I hope you enjoyed. Please leave a comment with any feedback, I love the kind things you say so much and cherish them to the moon and back; I also desire noting more than to improve my writing, especially for such amazing readers as you guys. See you soon. x


	40. Goodbye Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is so late and I'm so sorry :( thank you for sticking with it. On the upside, I finished first year of uni which I wasn't sure I'd be able to do, I passed it(!), I was in a play, I wrote two series of columns, I performed a poem in a medieval church AND I just travelled round Lebanon for a month! (all an update you never asked for but this year was both rough and tough and I'm glad to have made it) I meant to update before I left, but didn't get far enough through the chapter and it would've meant scrimping on quality, which I didn't want to do. Having just returned, I can give you chapter 40, in which we see Dean's messy perception of events nine+ years ago. I can also promise 41 in the next couple of days, which will forge the story onwards and upwards. I hope the length of this chapter and the promise that it's the last sad one for a long while somewhat make up for its lateness. 
> 
>  
> 
> Love you all :)

 

**Monday, June 9th 2007**

 

“What’s up with you?”

Dean stares insistently at the door Castiel has just disappeared through, refusing to look anywhere else, refusing to allow Lisa to drag him from his melancholy. His heart is in his throat.

This is a charade, he realises. This whole thing is a charade. He can never come out, he can never tell Cas how he feels—but he can’t exactly live without him, either. Dean’s whole life has been winding its way down a messy, knotted road, reeling every now and then in directions either good or bad. John working out he was queer, prompting the gestation of seeds of self-loathing in the pit of Dean’s stomach that have woven so much around his bones over the years that they are now a part of him; John dying—these are the knots. And the road, winding sickeningly, has carried Dean here, where he realises he cannot continue. There _aren’t_ two paths to take: Dean can’t come out, but he can’t stand watching Cas with Samandriel either, can’t stand the bittersweet unhappiness of a relationship with the tragically beautiful Lisa, can’t stand watching Castiel fall in love with another man and have it not be him.

Lisa tugs his hand.

“Dean,” She says again, “babe,” Another tug. “What’s up?”

What’s up?

Dean is in love with his best friend, who could never feel the same way about him, because Dean is a brother and not a lover. Dean is in love with his best friend, and his father knew this, and hated it, and wanted to stamp it out of Dean—and he tried; God damn if John Winchester didn’t _try_ to stamp it out of Dean. He stamped and he stomped and he ground Dean’s essence into the dirt because no part of it could be made separate from his queerness, and certainly no part of it could be made separate from _Cas._ Dean is in love with his best friend, and wishes he could tell his best friend this, but Cas is dating and in love with someone else. Dean is in love with his best friend, and wishes he could tell this best friend why it’s so hard for him to come out, what Dean’s childhood did to him, how it scarred him and chipped him and cracked him and mottled him and how Dean was never afforded the chance to heal because his dad died, so suddenly.

What’s up?

Dean’s wounds were left raw and have scarred badly, some got infected, some reopen at grim and confusing moments and make Dean lash out, to his own bewilderment, and to that of those around him. Dean is in love with his best friend and the weight of this, cracking at Dean’s groaning bones, paired with Dean’s scarring, jarring upbringing, has made Dean lash out at the person he cannot imagine having to live without, and will have to live without, soon enough. Dean is in love with his best friend and his best friend is moving to England and there is nothing Dean can do about it, nothing Dean can do to stop it because he’d be a _monster_ if he tried to stop it, because he know what this dream is and he knows what this dream means, especially to Castiel.

Dean is in love with his best friend who is moving to England and in love with somebody else and probably going to _marry_ that somebody else and _damn,_ Dean feels sick with sadness at the thought; Dean is in love and feels so powerless with it, Dean is in love with his best friend and is probably going to have to marry the girl next to him and make her unhappy with his thin and brittle love that cannot love wholly, that cannot nourish wholly. Dean is in love with his best friend and the rest of his life feels like a prison sentence.

Lisa tugs his hand again.

“Babe,” She asks, moving her head to forcibly meet Dean’s averted gaze. “What’s up?”

Dean swallows and looks up at her.

What would life with Lisa look like? A damn mess, probably.

Like, not a _bad_ mess. And not at first. Maybe they’d even have a few good, a few downright happy years in there, along the way. But you bite your lip long enough, and anyone who kisses you is gonna taste blood.

“Yeah,” Dean lies, with a swallow, gaze shifting. He shrugs off  his girlfriend’s worried hands. “Got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”

“You could have a drink and unwind?” Lisa suggests. “You don’t _have_ to drive home, you know. You could stay over.”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards, but it’s damn insincere and he can’t hold the look.

“I’ll need to take Cas home, at some point.”

Lisa sighs and sits back.

“He could probably go home with Samandriel.”

Dean shakes his head.

“He’s goin’ soon. For months. I want to spend as much time with him as possible.”

Lisa looks down. After a beat, she takes both Dean’s hands and squeezes them, then stands up from her chair with a curious amount of gravity.

“You know, Samandriel probably wants to spend some time with him as well,” She points out. “They _are_ dating, after all. Samandriel does _love_ Castiel.”

Dean nearly starts.

“He does?” He asks. “Samandriel _said_ that?”

“Uh-huh,” Lisa confirms, matter-of-factly, pouring herself another drink. Dean frowns.

“Babe, do you really need _another—”_

“I’m fine,” Lisa shakes her head. “Anyway, yes, Samandriel said it—”

“—It’s just I feel like you’ve had plenty—”

“And _I_ feel _fine,”_ Lisa looks up firmly from the soda she’d been mixing her vodka with. “And I’m _talking.”_

But Dean doesn’t want to hear.

“Sorry…” He mumbles, looking away.

“Samandriel told me, after prom. He and Cas were in Cas’ car—” Dean doesn’t want to think about what they were doing in there, the thought makes him itch with jealousy, “and it’s _so cute,_ Dean, you won’t believe it,” Lisa beams, making her way back over to Dean and sitting down, “they were making out,” Dean wrinkles his nose, the response involuntary.

“—Oh, gross, Lisa—I don’t want to hear that—”

“You’re _such_ a homophobe,” Lisa hits Dean’s arm with more than a little drunken clumsiness. “We make out all the time, how’s that any different?”

Dean looks away, face burning, but Lisa doesn’t notice, and continues.

“So they were making out, and Samandriel says, totally by accident, that he loves Castiel! He totally didn’t mean to, it just, like, fell out. How adorable? Isn’t that _so_ Samandriel?! And then Cas says it back! How cute is _that?_ ”

Dean swallows thickly and nods.

“Adorable,” He agrees.

Now his eyes burn alongside his face.

“You know it’s weird,” Lisa shifts a little in her chair, licking her lips, but doesn’t seem sure how to finish the sentence she’s started, and so leaves it trailing, a ribbon suspended in the air, for Dean to pull at.

“What’s weird?” Dean asks, near mechanically. Lisa shifts a little more. Some of this discomfort is obviously not theatrical.

“Just…” She tries, breathing in such a way that it could almost be steeling herself for something, “…how things work out…”

A frown knits Dean’s features a little tighter together.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

Lisa shrugs, feigning a kind of inconsequentiality of her thoughts.

“Just… y’know, the night we got together, was in a house party. And here we are again, at a house party… and we’re graduating, and…” She peers earnestly at Dean. Her voice changes in her next question, part of it sounds as if it has come from the mouth of an infant who already knows the answer and is afraid of it. But the words sounded out are given so much more gravity by the frightened, solemn childishness. “Do you think we’ll stay together after this summer?”

Dean can’t answer for a moment

Then he does—and his reply is, to his own surprise, remarkably honest.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to?” Lisa asks. “Because _I_ do—I really like you, Dean—”

Dean peers at beautiful, gentle Lisa who wanted to be a vet until she found out it would mean putting animals down, who sleeps on her right side and ties her hair up with ribbon on Sundays, whose eyes are so pretty and dark they almost match her pupils, who bakes cookies for her friends when they’re feeling sad and brings them into school to share, who loves children with a love that nearly rivals _Dean’s,_ who is an only child and dotes on and is doted on by her warm and funny and slightly overweight father and her worried, timid, tender mother.

“I think you’re amazing,” He replies honestly, throat raw. Lisa beams, eyes glittery.

“I just—” She shakes her head and looks away, still smiling, a telltale sign that she’s about to dismiss whatever she has to say next, “I think it’s so funny, the way we got together—like I was saying. Uh—this is stupid—at another house party, and—minutes before, I guess, Samandriel and Castiel got together—and then us.” She looks back up at Dean, who tries to hold his face like a mask. “Isn’t that crazy?”

“Uh… yeah, sure…”

Lisa is holding his gaze with uncomfortable firmness.

“You were there when it happened, weren’t you?” Lisa asks. “I remember seeing you come in and sit in the living room. I’d—” She bites her lip and looks down with a shy smile, “I’d thought you were so cute, for so long, Dean.” A thought visibly strikes her, and she pursues it. “I remember when my family first moved here, in eighth grade, and I was so scared—new state, new town, new school. And I got sat next to you in my first lesson. Math. I still remember it. Third row from the front, right side as you walked in. Miss—ah,” Lisa grits her teeth, “I can’t remember her name. Hull? Haywood? Assigned me a seat next to you. Do you remember?”

Vaguely. A ghost of a ghost image of a girl with big doe eyes and long dark hair in two braid on either side of her light brown face, standing at the front of the class before getting pointed over to the empty desk next to Dean’s… It’s just… Well, Dean _had_ thought Lisa was pretty. About that time he really thought _most_ girls were pretty. It’s just… he thought _Cas_ was pretty, too—and Cas was sat on the other side of Dean, a detail Lisa either can’t remember or is omitting, for the sake of this cutesy fairytale narrative with which she’s shaped the events of her interactions and then relationship with Dean.

Dean nods.

“Sure, I remember.”

“I thought you were so cute,” Lisa beams. “When I got home, I called up one of my girlfriends and told her all about you. We spent _hours_ giggling. It’s so weird to think that a couple of years later, you’d kiss me—and just after your best friend kissed _Samandriel,_ who’d had a crush on him for even longer!”

“Right…” Dean nods, stiffly.

“It’s just funny. Both of you. Getting with two people who’d had crushes on you for so long, one after the other, at the same party.”

Dean frowns.

Does Lisa… Does Lisa _know?_

“Of course,” Lisa continues, “ _I’ve_ had friends I’ve been close with since kindergarten, and I guess it was a little different since I moved home when I was twelve, but…” She tilts her head minutely to the side and stares at Dean in a way almost reminiscent of Castiel himself. “I guess you and Cas are _really_ close, huh?” She asks.

Dean’s insides squirm.

Is the first person he comes out to _actually_ going to be his girlfriend?

“I guess…” He confirms, shifting in his seat.

“Like brothers?”

Dean shrinks.

Well, the door, however briefly it was there, to initiating a conversation with Lisa about Dean’s queerness, has closed.

“Sure…” He looks down.

Lisa is silent for a moment.

Then she asks something, so suddenly, that it actually makes Dean jump.

“Do you love me?”

Dean’s gaze snaps back up to Lisa. He nearly balks, mouth open.

“What?”

Lisa flushes, shaking her head.

“It was—it was stupid, I guess, but I’d kind of hoped—”

Dean tried, earlier tonight to let Cas know how he felt. And he’s tried so many times before it. Shouldn’t he be done trying, now? Shouldn’t that be _it?_ Cas has never reciprocated, and Cas is the one who is _out._ If Dean had a flying hope, if Cas even considered Dean vaguely attractive, Dean would know it by now—surely. The thought deflates him. But it’s the truth: he’s a _brother_ to Castiel. Nothing more.

This is all he gets. This is all Dean will ever get.

And Lisa—Lisa is sat here, in the kitchen of her own house, drunk and open and vulnerable and beautiful, practically _begging_ Dean to love her. Is that too much to ask?

What, after Lisa? If Dean turned her down, what good would it do? Is Lisa as good as it gets?

Nobody gets a happy ending, Dean thinks. Nobody _actually_ gets a happy ending. Maybe a lucky few—maybe Cas and Samandriel will, if everything turns out alright. And shouldn’t Dean want them to be happy? Shouldn’t Dean want, more than anything, _Cas_ to be happy?

He wonders what the moment was, when he realised he was in love with Castiel. Was it sudden, like moment your foot falls as you are walking up the stairs at night, and mistakenly think there is one more step than there actually is? Was it slow, like drifting asleep with the curtains open and the sun still pouring in? Did he know and then not know? Did he wilfully forget, for a while? Dean _must_ have known when they were kids; he wanted to _marry_ Cas. But then, realising he was bi still came as a shock to him.

God.

What a knot.

And what would make Lisa happy?

Dean peers at her.

Lisa, with eyes currently teary and glittering like a night sky, would have a happy ending of picket fences, but not in a mundane sense. She’d want a beautiful big home and more kids than would be worth counting. She’d probably want to be a stay-at-home mom. She’d bake and garden and raise child after child and brush her beautiful dark hair with a soft brush in the evenings, peering at her husband, already in bed, from the mirror of her dressing table in an amber-red light, before climbing into bed with him. Would Dean be that husband? Should that thought be terrifying or comforting?

Dean can see his whole life ahead of him yet cannot make out if it is a road or a precipice. Is it possible for things to be both?

He realises that Lisa has asked again. _Do you love me?_ Which now, actually, translates a little more literally as _Do you think you could ever love me?_

And yes, Dean thinks. Yes, he could. He could try.

There are so many things Dean could say. There are so many things he _wants_ to say; but love should be simple—which is why, perhaps, he and Cas could never last, anyway. They were both to knotted together to work out. They needed fate to untangle them so that their lives could run alongside one another, again.

Dean stares at Lisa. His lungs hurt.

“I do,” He says, worry lines forming between his brows. But Lisa hardly notices. She starts crying and beams and kisses Dean hard. Dean wonders what the ethics are of kissing a girl this drunk, wonders if her being your girlfriend changes anything in the algorithm.

“You do?” She asks, pulling back with a teary smile.

“Uh-huh,” Dean nods, feeling defeated and deflated. He recalls how Samandriel was touching Cas, earlier tonight. And if Cas has said ‘love’ to Samandriel, why shouldn’t Dean say it to Lisa? Dean, and Cas, and their twin relationships. Dean always following Cas’s lead; kissing Lisa only because Cas kissed Samandriel, first; loving Lisa only because Cas loved someone else. “Of course.”

Lisa pulls out of the kiss, only to hug Dean tightly.

“I can’t believe I’m crying,” She laughs. “I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Dean shakes his head with a frown, but Lisa speaks over him.

“I’m so melodramatic,” She giggles. “God, did you ever hear of someone so melodramatic? It’s ridiculous.” She pulls back and wipes her eyes with each of her fingers and palms, careful not to mess up her eye makeup. “I’m just being drunk and stupid—you were right. I should stop drinking. I’m stopping now.” She picks up her cup and gestures to it. “This’ll be my last one of the night!” She exclaims, and nods goofily at it, in such a way that Dean really _does_ love her, for a moment, in a sad and humanitarian and platonic way, appreciative of her beauty and tenderness and warmth and realness, of her consistent performance of life. Lisa turns back to Dean. She moves like smoke. “I guess everything felt overwhelming, you know? It’s weird to think so many close friends are leaving, and there’s not any way of stopping some of us from drifting apart, forever. That’s scary, you know?”

Dean finds Lisa’s hands. He nods. “I know.”

“And I was afraid, most of all, it’d happen with _you,”_ Lisa states. “I don’t want to just grow apart. That’d suck.”

Dean sighs and nods, smiling as tenderly as he can.

“Yeah,” He agrees. “Totally.”

“Anyway,” Lisa smiles practically, standing up and brushing herself down, “I’m gonna go dance. This is a _party,_ after all—and I don’t know when I’ll next be in the same room as all my friends!”

“Probably Christmas…” Dean mumbles, but doesn’t repeat it when Lisa doesn’t hear him. “I’m gonna go check up on Cas,” Dean says, as they both make their way back into the living room. “It’s been a while. I’m wondering if he’s okay.”

“Cool,” Lisa shouts over the music, kissing Dean on the lips before turning to dance with her friends. Dean feels tired.

He leaves and trudges up the stairs of Lisa’s home with another sigh.

Not looking where he’s going, but instead at the floor, Dean practically crashes into Castiel at the top of the stairs. Castiel, who is staring back down the corridor to Lisa’s room with an expression bitter melancholy and mingled determination. Castiel, who Dean can’t help but love, really and truly love like nothing else in the world. What does that mean? What does it mean to love someone, the way Dean loves Cas? Is it too much for happiness? Is there so much love, that there is no room, neither for joy, nor peace?

But _Cas—_ Castiel—staring back down the corridor and then practically jumping out of his own skin at his collision with Dean, looks _miserable._ Which burns Dean.

“Buddy,” Dean takes a hold of Castiel’s hands to keep him upright, realising with shock that the dark haired boy is actually _crying,_ “are you okay? What’s happened?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. In the next instant, one which sends Dean’s insides into a jolt of vibrant electricity, he buries his face in Dean’s neck and wraps surprisingly thick arms around Dean’s body. And Dean, poor Dean, has to resist the urge to all but melt into it. He falters for a moment with this restraint, then manages to only hug back. Castiel’s body shudders against him. Dean can feel his heart tattooed against Dean’s own chest, an insistent, fast, heavy thumping that Dean presses himself tighter against.

“You wanna go home?” Dean asks, voice muffled against Castiel’s hair, which smells—of _course—_ like honey and rosy apples and Dean has smelt it, a thousand times before, but now he can _inhale_ it, long for it, become it.

Castiel shakes his head against Dean’s body.

“You should stay,” He protests, attempting to pull away, but Dean can’t let go, and doesn’t want to, and _damn it,_ if this isn’t gonna be the night where he tells Cas exactly how he feels. “You should stay with your girlfriend—I can make my own way—”

“Lisa will get it,” Dean presses through his best friend’s protests, holding on tight to Cas’ wrists. “She’ll get it,” He repeats. He squeezes Castiel’s arms. “And you’re way more important than some dumb party.”

This comes a little too close to the truth, and already, it thrills Dean.

Castiel hugs Dean again, pressing his face into Dean’s shoulder.

Dean’s heart is in his throat and his body is made out of static.

“Thank—I—Dean—you—”

The dark haired boy, ordinarily with such a talent for words, cannot seem to finish or find them.

“I know,” Dean replies, and squeezes tight. He pulls away, leading Castiel down the stairs, holding onto Castiel’s hand—it sends his head reeling to be touching Cas in this way, but he doesn’t care, because he’s _doing_ it, doing it _now,_ and it feels fucking brilliant and terrifying and numb, like falling, and Cas isn’t pulling away.

Downstairs, in the swarm of music and people, Dean seeks out Lisa, still holding on to Cas’s hand.

When he sees her he remembers what transpired between him and his girlfriend only minutes earlier—what he said, and what he promised.

And Lisa—oh God, poor Lisa—deserves a lot more than an emotionally unfaithful boyfriend with issues with his own sexuality. Lisa deserves a lot of things.

“Babe,” Dean draws close to her and her sheet of long black hair, grazing the loose tendrils which fall onto her forehead and cheeks back with his thumb. And Dean remembers why he felt—and maybe still _feels—_ as though he could love Lisa in the first place. She’s _radiant_ and kind and smart and bubbly and bright and soft—and she deserves a whole lot more than what Dean’s been giving her. “I’ve gotta go,” His palm cups Lisa’s cheek, and she leans into it, smiling in a beautiful serene haze. She’s _very_ drunk and has either had a few more in Dean’s absence, or all her previous drinks have caught up with her. “Cas is—” Dean glances back at Castiel, and his hand slips off Lisa’s cheek for a moment. There’s a question. What’s going on with Cas? “Well,” Dean frowns, still looking at Castiel. Then he turns back to Lisa. His hand slips back into its neat place on Lisa’s cheek. “He needs to go home.”

Lisa smiles sadly.

“I get it,” She nods. She goes up onto her tiptoes and kisses Dean on the lips—the lips, Dean realises, that Dean has kissed, and maybe _will_ kiss, more than any other. The lips that are sugary with flavoured chapstick and part into blissful, serene smiles when Dean so much as compliments Lisa, the lips that have caressed, have laughed in the early hours of the morning with Dean, have entertained his nonsense, the lips that honestly deserve so much. Maybe this will be it for Dean and Lisa. Maybe if he tells Cas how he feels tonight—whatever the outcome—he’ll have to say goodbye to this farce.

So when Dean kisses back, he kisses hard.

After an eternity, Dean pulls away. Lisa gazes up at him in an expression of confused wonder.

“Thanks, babe. I’ll see you around.”

“Tomorrow?” Lisa asks. “Will you come over?”

Dean is already making his way out, he glances back fleetingly, guilt flaring along the ridges of his insides.

“I’ll call you,” He promises. “We’ll figure something out.”

And Castiel follows after him, waving goodbye to Lisa.

“Goodbye, Castiel!” She calls at his receding back. “I hope you feel better!”

Dean takes a hold of Castiel’s hand again, on pure impulse, not even riding the excuse of alcohol, of which he has had none, and leads Castiel down the hall of Lisa’s place. The route is mangled and twisted by drunken dancing teens and classmates making out or shouting or crying or laughing or some combination of the above. Cas looks lost and as sombre as a tired old man.

Castiel tries to speak when they make it out into Lisa’s front yard. His voice is heavy with drunken gravity and this inexplicable sorrow that has overcome his person in the past ten minutes.

 “You’re sure you’re okay with—”

“Dude,” Dean cuts him off, squeezing the other boy’s hand. “Of course I’m okay with it. I said at the beginning of the night, didn’t I? And I haven’t had anything to drink, and you _definitely_ have,” Maybe Dean is reading too far into it, but there’s a flicker at Castiel’s features, like the thought of a smile, “so I’m gonna make sure you actually make it home, and drive you there. How does that sound?” The dark haired boy looks down to where their skin meets. His is darker than Dean’s, even in this light. It’s not even remotely unclear where Dean’s skin ends and Castiel’s begins. Dean can practically see the millions of little cogs whirring a twirling in Cas’s head, each tic-tic ticking and spinning and buzzing and whizzing—but no: that’s not Cas’s mind at all. Cas’s head is a swim of colour, and the shapes that cover and cross and spin at one another aren’t quite circles. They aren’t scribbles, either—no, that’s Dean’s head, _Dean_ is the one with the messy mind. Cas’s is one of connections and vivid sense and perception, and Dean _loves_ it and loves watching it and realises he is watching Cas, as Cas watches the exact places their skin meets.

And ‘just’ friends don’t do that.

So what is Cas thinking?

The dark haired boy’s expression deepens, turns sad again, shifts from fascination to sorrow, and he slips away.

“Thank you…” He murmurs, looking down, as Dean lets his hand fall and makes his way to the Impala. “It—you’re so kind, Dean—”

Dean chuckles wryly, opening Castiel’s door for him.

“I think you’re just a little bit drunk.”

Castiel shakes his head but climbs in. Dean goes over to the driver’s side and does the same, closing his door and starting the engine.

And—oh, damn—Dean had completely forgotten what they’d been listening to on the way here. Oh, _shit, shit, shit._ It starts up automatically and Dean’s face practically catches alight. If Cas listens to the end of this mixtape, what he’s gonna hear is an awkward, dorky expression of  probably unwelcome love.

But peering over at Cas now, the other boy doesn’t _seem_ disgusted. He seems touched. And thoughtful. Which, Dean realises, isn’t exactly out of character for the other boy.

But—wait. Cas is _sad,_ and Dean needs to stop thinking about himself, and actually _be_ there for his friend.

 “So what’s up?” Dean asks.

Castiel blinks, confused.

“What?”

Dean sighs.

“Should I drive?” He asks. “Or do you want to talk about it?”

Castiel still looks nonplussed.

“Talk about what?”

Fucking idiot.

Dean rolls his eyes.

Not that he’d have Cas any other way.

“Guess I’ll drive then.”

He pulls out of the driveway. The night is stifling and smothers Dean, just as the thought that Cas is leaving does, just as the thought that Dean is in love with his best friend threatens to choke him up as he drives them home.

He glances over to Cas in the passenger seat, stealing the memory of Cas’s shard-like gaze fixed on the road, coveting it.

Something has stilled in the air and Dean’s heart is going like a jackhammer; _damn_ he wishes he’d been smarter than to leave the stupid mixtape in his car—but—with the look Cas is wearing, maybe it _wasn’t_ a bad thing.

Maybe?

Silence and the music and the gentle rumble of the engine and wheels on road.

Dean can’t bite his lip forever: he wanted to tell Cas by song how he feels, maybe he should just tell him in _person._ He’s drawn enough of his own blood with the pain of silence—silence about his sexuality, silence about who it is he loves, even with the _person_ he loves. Maybe now is the time to let go, to actually do it, to stop fantasising about it and exhale, finally.

The next song starts up.

Dean glances over to his friend in time to see Castiel’s breath snag at his chest, unless he’s _very_ much mistaken. The sight thrills him.

“You put all _my_ music on this,” Castiel comments, turning to Dean with misty eyes. Is Cas tearing up over _this?_ Dean wants to laugh but then really, really, truly doesn’t: this proves all of it matters to Cas. Whatever Cas thinks ‘this’ means. And Cas has never looked as beautiful as he does in this moment, which is saying something—with hazy, pretty music that Castiel loves swirling in the air around them in the car, like the wind blowing snowflakes in this direction and that. “Why is that?” Castiel asks.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Because I’m gonna miss you, man,” He answers, trying to cover up just how much this is true—but how could he? Even now, the flavour of love leaks into his words. Dean stares at the road instead of at his best friend: resolving to be brave enough to be honest doesn’t equal being brave enough to actually _look_ at Cas. “I’ve said, haven’t I?”

This doesn’t stop him from feeling Cas’s gaze pressing intently on his features.

“But why are you going to miss me?” Castiel asks, tone almost childish with its intent, innocent inquisitiveness.

The song continues and Dean fights the flush creeping down his neck as streetlights beat at the windows.

He laughs, partly to cover up his blush, and partly because the question is so damn _stupid._

“Because, Cas,” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. _Because I’m in love with you. Because you’ve been the most constant good—bar Sammy—in my life. Because you squint and tilt your head when you don’t understand something, and it’s freaking adorable. Because you smell like honey. Because I’ve been so alone, but you’ve made it so much better. Because I’m glad to have hurt with how much I’ve loved you._ “Why do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel shakes his head. He stares at Dean. “Or, I want to hear you say it.”

Dean’s smile fades.

Something big catches itself in his throat and he forgets to swallow. He glances at Castiel with terror and wonder and hope electrified joy numbing and buzzing at his insides.

“Say it?” Dean repeats.

 “Yes,” Castiel confirms.

Dean can’t be imagining it: Cas’s eyes are trained on Dean’s lips, which he can’t help but lick, nervous, and curious in a primitive kind of way in how exactly Cas will respond to the act.

As he does so, pangs of desire and guilt and pain and shame shoot through his system in a series of pinpricks and jabbing thrusts. His gaze flashes away. He swallows.

Cas is dating Samandriel. Dean is dating Lisa. And loving his best friend—something John tried to train out of him, until Dean’s soul cramped and shrivelled and was stapled by its seams to the edges of Dean’s body—isn’t as easy as reaching out and kissing.

Or is it?

 “What happened tonight?” Dean asks, instead of answering. His voice is quiet. A frown tugs at Castiel’s brows in a short, soft, single jerk. “Did you… Why were you crying? Why was Samandriel crying?”

Castiel exhales; Dean only catches it because of the fall of the other boy’s shoulders. He turns away and looks out at the road.

“It’s a long story…” He murmurs. “I don’t…”

He begins to fumble with his hands.

Dean wants to touch them.

“You don’t want to tell me?” He asks. Is there hurt there, as Dean asks this? He can’t unmuddle it: maybe. Maybe trying to unravel Cas involves knotting himself.

Castiel’s chest trembles.

“No—not like—” He cuts himself off. The music punctures the stilled, static atmosphere of their conversation. Castiel points at the stereo. “This is _my_ music,” He says again. Dean flushes. “You—I never even knew you paid that much attention—”

Dean is desperate to deflect.

And a quip about his ADHD is as good as anything, right?

“That a joke about my disability, Cas?”

“It’s not a disability, Dean,” Castiel answers, eyebrows pinched together. Alright, fine, maybe honesty _is_ the best policy. But how? It’s been months, since Cas came out, of Dean tracking and charting his own conversation with the other boy; making sure he didn’t come across too cold, making Cas think, once again, that Dean is a raging homophobe; and equally making sure he doesn’t stray too far the other way, making Cas realise that not only is Dean queer, but very much in love with him. The habit has become a protective shell and Dean needs to crack himself out of it.  “And no—I just—”

“I’ve known you for how long, exactly, buddy?” Dean asks. “A long time, I’ll gamble. I know _everything_ about you. Everything.”

Castiel stares, swallowing thickly. Dean turns back to the road. His arms begin shaking with how tightly he grips the steering wheel. He stares at the road, which clothed by darkness, unravels in the light of the headlights with forced attentiveness.

The air around them is charged with an electric awareness and hyperawareness.

The next song starts, which of course has to be the gayest song in the existence of human history; _La Vie En Rose,_ in fucking French. Why did Dean have to add it?

Thank fuck, Dean pulls onto their road, and after what feels like an age—an age of silence, and Castiel staring, Dean pulls up in front of Cas’s house.

Nothing is said. Cas continues to stare.

If Dean tells Cas how he feels, what is he sacrificing? What will he end up giving up?

And does any of that even matter, anyway? Has Cas already worked it out?

Making a mixtape filled with a bunch of someone’s favourite love songs is a pretty obvious way to tell someone how you feel, Dean might as well has burnt it onto the grass of Jimmy’s front yard.

Cas is still staring, eyes glassy and removed, looking right through Dean.

 “You really don’t look okay, you know,” Dean says.

But something about Cas’s expression, his response to the mixtape… Something in it sparks a soft thread of hope inside Dean’s chest.

Cas doesn’t answer for a moment. When he does reply, the tone of his voice, the content of his words shoot something hot and coiled up Dean’s gut.

“Come inside?”

Dean nods once and kills the engine. They get out at the same time, their motions matching each other. The Impala’s doors shutting echoes into the still night. Out of nervousness, and because it’s all he can do not to drag Cas over to the hood of the impala and kiss him senseless, Dean looks up at the sky. He remembers his dad’s words to him, pointing Dean’s gaze up at the sky years and years ago—maybe even before he met Cas.

_“If the sky seems like it’s hanging lower than normal, and plants smell stronger, and it goes from very hot to very cold, or the other way round: that’s how you know. Trouble. Trouble’s on its way.”_

“Storm’s comin’,” He states, looking uneasy. Castiel stops and smiles.

“You think so?” He asks, looking up, too. “I’m not so sure.”

“Nope,” He shakes his head. “I can feel it.”

“You’re an old man, Dean,” Castiel snorts.

“Very old,” Dean nods as Castiel climbs the porch steps, tugging out his keys from his right-hand pocket and fumbling, still a little drunk, with them a moment. “Here,” Dean chuckles, taking the keys from Cas, “let me.”

And yes, _maybe_  he indulges in trailing his fingers against Cas’s knuckles a little more than might be considered necessary.

Castiel looks down at the hands, then up at Dean. Dean has to bite the insides of his mouth so that he doesn’t kiss his friend right then and there.

“Thank you…” Castiel murmurs. Dean snorts.

“No problem,” Dean clicks the lock open, looking down at the keys with an affectionate smile.

“Can I have a copy of the mixtape you made?” Castiel asks. Dean’s insides plummet.

But maybe this isn’t all bad—this—maybe this means Cas liked it, and likes Dean by extension. He pauses, not opening the door, and looks up at Castiel.

“Uh…” Dean falters. “Sure.” Cas is moving home. Dean has to be honest. Or has to _start_ being honest. “Sure,” He repeats, nodding. “No problem. It’ll be like a—a going away present,” He smiles. “Not goodbye, though,” His smile broadens.

“Not goodbye,” Castiel repeats. “Never goodbye.”

Dean beams.

“Eight week semesters,” He reminds, “and then you’re back. That’s no time at all.”

Castiel smiles, Dean opening the door and making his way inside, only catching a flicker of sadness in Cas’s features a moment too late.

 “Upstairs?” Dean asks, in the quiet stillness of the beautiful house, washed pale blue in the light of the moon.

“Upstairs,” Castiel confirms, leading the way, his shoulder grazing Dean’s, coursing magma through the site.

“Roof?” Dean asks, mouth dry.

“Roof,” Castiel nods again, and, as they make their way into his room, Castiel picking up two bottles from behind his bed before pushing the big window up to open it and clambering out onto the roof of the front porch.

“What’s in the bottles?” Dean asks, gesturing to them as Castiel sits down on the middle of the porch, not with his back resting against the house, and not with his feet dangling over the edge. He tilts his head back, resting on the palms of his hands with his legs crossed beneath him, staring up at the sky.

“Rum,” He answers, “and coke. You want some?”

“Gross,” Dean wrinkles his nose. “You’ve just kept them by your bed?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and takes one of the bottles off Dean, but Dean takes it back.

“Nope,” He shakes his head, “I think you’ve had enough.”

“What?” Castiel replies, indignant.

“You need to tell me what’s wrong,” Dean says, and stares intently at Castiel. The wind has cooled suddenly.

Cas presses his lips together and glares—but he can’t hold it. Of course.

Oh, God.

Dean is so in love.

Cas looks down, and Dean sits beside him, a hand slipping onto the other boy’s shoulder without thinking. Like it’s been burnt, Dean is about to rip it off, but to his shock—and joy—the dark haired boy leans hard into the touch.

“It’s—stupid,” Cas murmurs, “and I shouldn’t… I don’t know—now that I think about it, I shouldn’t even be upset… But it hurts, and I don’t know why, and it got me thinking…”

He trails off, and Dean stares at him, perplexed.

“I’m sorry, Cas,” He says, eventually, “but I’m gonna need a little more context than just that.”

Cas looks down, drawing a long breath. Dean stares. Castiel begins to cry.

“Cas, woah,” Dean’s hands move to cup at the other boy’s face—again, thoughtlessly. But Dean doesn’t take them off: doesn’t want to, never wants to. “Are you okay?” Dean can’t help the worry that rings at his own voice. “Please, Cas—”

Castiel mouths the syllable of his name blindly for a moment.

 “I’m,” He touches Dean’s hand tentatively, watches attentively as Dean falters, confused, eyes widening with the thought that mingled with Cas’s nervousness and confusion is tenderness. “I’m fine—I—sorry,” He shakes his head, but then Dean clasps Castiel’s hands in his own; the touch feels _right,_ and Cas’s eyes have gone so big and blue they swallow everything and drain the world of any other colour; only the shards of white that pierce the flaming cobalt irises, and the charcoal lashes lining them, act as any kind of contrast.

 “You don’t need to be sorry,” Dean shakes his head softly. He can hardly move, can hardly speak, can certainly hardly breathe through his parted lips. Cas stares at them, he actually _stares_ at Dean’s lips, and the air between them now is charged with the same threat of thunder that lingers in the sky.

 _Please,_ Dean thinks, _like me back. Don’t let this be a fantasy, Love me, too. Don’t let it be a daydream. Need me the way that I need you, always, here with me. Kiss me. Please. Never stop._

“Samandriel broke up with me,” Castiel says, dissolving the electric charge in the air. Dean rocks back where he sits.

“What?” He asks. He’d almost completely forgotten that anyone else in the world actually existed, outside of him and Castiel—let alone Cas’s _boyfriend._

Well, shit, ex-boyfriend, now.

“Why?”

“Well,” Castiel tilts his head slightly and recants, “I broke up with him, I suppose, but only at his threatening to break up with me.”

“Why did he threaten to break up with you?” Dean asks, stomach knotting.

Cas falters, looking down. Dean stares at the averted eyes.

“Because,” Castiel begins slowly, “he… I guess… He didn’t want me to go to England…”

Dean frowns, lips pursed together, pressing for his friend to continue.

“He, uh—he said that if I really loved him, I’d—” Cas swallows with a wince. He starts again. “He conflated me leaving for university with me being disloyal, I think,” He nods slowly, still avoiding Dean’s gaze.

Dean squeezes at Castiel’s hand to regain his attention as defensive anger flares up inside of him.

“That’s bullshit,” He glares. “He said—what?—Finish your sentence. He said if you really loved him—? What, that you’d stay?”

Castiel stares at the ground.

“That was the… The essence of it, I suppose…” He answers reluctantly. Dean is so infuriated he has to look away, glaring out into the night air.

 _“Bullshit!”_ He snaps out. “That’s a total pisstake—Cas, you know that, right? How could he even say that? If he _cared—”_

Castiel gazes back up at Dean.

“He was right,” Castiel says, quietly. _Right?_ Dean looks up at his friend, frowning heavily. Of course Cas is pinning this on himself, taking the blame when Samandriel has been a manipulative little prick. Dean would never do this to Cas. Were it Dean, in Cas’s position, he’d take anything, any amount of pain, just to see how happy going to England and studying there made his best friend. Dating for a couple of months? _Nothing._ Best friends for fourteen years? Now _that’s_ a claim on any right to be devastated by Cas’s leaving. And Dean is—but he’s biting down on it, and has been, because it’s the right damn thing to do. Samandriel overlooking that, trying to make all of this about him, pressuring Cas, blackmailing Cas, offering an ultimatum that undermines Cas’s lifelong dream—well, it’s unforgivable.

“No,” Dean shakes his head, “don’t tell yourself that. Don’t let him make you feel that way. _Anyone_ who loved you—they’d let you go—it’s your _dream,_ Cas, and has been since forever. _I_ know that. How could he not know that? And if he did know it, how could he ignore it? It’s your everything—anyone who loved you would want you to go—that’s what you do—if _he_ loved you, really, properly, he’d—”

“He was right,” Castiel says again, louder, and cutting through Dean’s words like they’re nothing. Dean looks at him hard, confused and frustrated. “He was right,” Castiel repeats, nodding and looking down; Dean can practically see the cogs whirring and ticking in his brain—if that’s how Cas’s brain actually works. Dean has never been able to tell: Cas’s thoughts aren’t linear, they sprawl and spider out like they obviously are now, Cas is making connections and treading through the forest of his own mind as, with averted gaze, he nods slowly.

 “I’d stay for a person I loved, I think,” Castiel says, words passing his lips as thoughtfully as ever. “And Samandriel was right, and I think he knew he was right, but I don’t think… I don’t think he wanted to be right.”

Dean stares at Castiel, eyebrows pinched together. Cas wouldn’t stay for _anything._ Right? And he shouldn’t: Cas’s dream is to go to England, and any thought he has contradicting that, right now, is just last minute nerves. So what is Cas saying? Samandriel didn’t want to be right?

“I don’t understand,” Dean shakes his head, his voice quiet.

“I think Samandriel asked me to stay, because he wanted to be wrong about…” Castiel trails off. Dean has no clue why he feels so antsy. “Wanted to be wrong about—” Castiel cuts himself off again, and by the faltering of his throat Dean realises he really _can’t_ speak.

“About what?” Dean asks, leaning forward.

“My commitment to him,” Castiel answers too quickly, the words nearly vomited out as he glances away for half a second. “He knew—well, obviously—going to Cambridge means a lot to me, and he knew it meant more than him—”

“But when you say it like that,” Dean shakes his head, “it sounds mean. Which it wasn’t. It was never like that—it’s just that this is your _dream,_ and he was your high school boyfriend, and you can’t just _ask_ someone to give up on something that big, that they’ve been planning for so long, just because it hurts _you._ That’s selfishness. He’s selfish—and hell, you’ve even got your plane tickets booked! You were gonna go to Cambridge before you and Samandriel even got together—”

Vaguely, Dean thinks he hears Cas saying his name, trying to get his attention.

“If he really cared about you, he’d want you to go, he’d want you to be happy!” Dean exclaims. “I know _I_ do!” It’s bullshit, is what it is; Dean can hardly vocalise it. He’s _heartbroken_ by Cas leaving—Samandriel could never understand how much, no matter how he pretends to care for Cas, he obviously doesn’t. The idea of Cas going is terrifying. It steals Dean’s breath. It robs him of home, of safe, of care, of constant, kind, peculiar companion. It’s a robbery, Cas going to England: it’s taking the one constant good in his life, the one thing that allows Dean to feel like himself—the one person who’s ever made Dean feel like being himself is a good thing.

And Samandriel, not getting any of that, not feeling any of that, still asked Cas to stay—not for Dean, not for Jimmy, not for his home here in Kansas, Samandriel asked Castiel to stay for _himself._

“He—he’s demanding so much sacrifice from you, and not sacrificing anything himself! You’re not _engaged_ to him _,_ so what does he expect? You’re eighteen, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Cas, and he’s just… It’s not right—if you love someone, you let them go. They’re a part of you, anyway, right? If you love someone deep enough, then they’re a part of you, of who you are, and them leaving doesn’t change that, even…” Dean trails off and stops, drawing in a trembling breath. His lips are parted, his eyes sting. “Even if it hurts…” Dean finishes. “And sometimes it does,” He looks down. “Even if it destroys you.”

And it will.

Castiel stares at Dean.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly. Dean looks up. Tears muffle his sight.

“Cas?” He asks. The single word, the question of Cas’s name forms like a prayer.

“Samandriel was right,” Castiel nods, speech thoughtful and deliberate, even more so than usual. The forest of Cas’s mind has grown thicker and Dean can’t see through it for the swathes of trees, can hardly make Cas out between them. “And I don’t care anymore, anyway. But he was right, and I’m not angry at him, I don’t think.”

“I don’t get it,” Dean’s face twitches.

“I’d stay for someone I loved,” Castiel answers. “Someone I _really_ loved.”

Cas is staring at him with too much intention and meaning. What’s he saying? Dean pauses. He stares, then he looks away, but Cas doesn’t stop staring. Cas would stay for someone he loved? That sounds like a stupid idea: Cas’s dream is England, and Cas isn’t the romantic type. Entertaining thoughts of staying is a bad damn idea.

Dean’s insides begin to clamp up.

“I don’t—” Dean stammers. Everything beyond the barrier of Dean’s skin is closing in on itself. His hands begin to shake. “Cas?”

Oh, God.

Not like this. Not like this.

Cas is staring at Dean with all the meaning in the world, and—is he? Is he—could he ever be saying he loves Dean? That he’d stay, for Dean?

The darkness around them is stifling, as is the weight of what Cas has just thrown to Dean’s feet, asking him to pick up.

“Not Samandriel,” Castiel says again, but Dean shakes his head, eyes stinging.

Oh, no, no. God, no. _Save it, Cas,_ Dean wishes, _Save telling me this for after you’ve gone—then that way you won’t want to stay: if you save it, I can return it, tell you I feel the same way, too. If you tell me now, and I say I love you, you won’t go. And I don’t want you to go, fuck, I want you to stay forever—but I can’t drop that on you. I’m not Samandriel. I’m Dean, your best friend, and you can’t stay, even for me, I can’t do that to you. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That you’d stay for me? Is that it?_

“I don’t think you understand what you’re saying—”

“Really?” Cas asks with a frown, obviously not buying it. “How could you not know?” He asks, so damn earnestly it dries up Dean’s mouth and he nearly chokes. Cas shakes his head. His eyes glitter with tears. So do Dean’s.

“Cas…” Dean says, slowly, hoarsely. _Stop talking. Please stop talking. Say you’ll miss me and let that be it—for now. Go far in life, and then come back to me. I’d wait for you forever. I can’t make you wait for me._

But is this even what Cas is saying? Caught between the vanity of the thought that Cas loves Dean, is saying he’d stay for him, and terror at the possibility of its truth, Dean is shaking with want and hope and overrun joy that cannot catch alight for the terror sweeping him.

“I’d—Dean,” Castiel laughs, “how could you not know?” He asks again. “I—everything—the night of Charlie’s party, I—I wanted to impress _you,_ I wanted to dance with _you,_ I wanted—I—not Samandriel,” Castiel draws in a sharp breath. Dean does the same.

It’s not possible.

Cas— _Castiel._ Loving Dean. Unworthy, messy, emotional Dean who trained himself out of hoping years ago. He can’t.

 “All of it’s for you, Dean, all of it,” Cas continues. “I—I’d stay for _you,_ Dean—how could you not know that? I love _you—”_

“Cas,” Dean tries, shaking his head. He remembers John Winchester with a murky shock to his system and shrivelling thoughts of self-loathing. He’s not worthy of Cas, and he can’t ask him to stay, and it’d be wrong if he—if he—it’d be wrong; what was hammered into his system all through his youth was that all of this is _wrong._ “Don’t say… I don’t…” He glances out onto the street, spotting a light on in his house. His mom’s room. He frowns, pushing himself away, thinking—or maybe just worrying—he can see Mary’s shadow at the window.

But a new attack comes.

Cas surges forward and closes the gap between them.

Dean doesn’t respond for a second; his brain all but shuts down.

Then, with Cas kissing him, hand in his hair, pulling him close, other hand on his back trailing up, down, Dean’s lips catching against Cas’s, Dean realises what’s happening. Cas is kissing him.

Cas is _kissing_ him.

Finally, finally, he’s ached for it, longed for it, jealously bled for it as Samandriel traced his lips against Dean’s best friend, and now, _now,_ it is happening now to Dean. Yes, _yes,_ yes—but—no—

No—

Something stabs at Dean’s insides and a pair of angry eyes he hasn’t seen in person since he was fourteen flash through his mind.

No—

The light on in his house burns at his skin and the silence of it—of Mary, Mary’s harrowing silence for nine years as Dean tore at his own skin—crack the shells of Dean’s ears.

No, no—

Dean surges forward, eyes bleeding—no, watering—and shoves Castiel back with enough venom to stun the other boy.

His eyes are stung with tears.

Something bitter seeps into his mouth, and it doesn’t taste of Cas, who flinches at the look Dean is wearing.

“Dean—”

He can hardly think for the thunder in his ears. It is raining inside of him; lightning crackles around his heart and clouds for his thoughts, his insides are drenched.

“What the hell?” Dean manages to gasp out. He still trembles. He doesn’t understand. Something feels as though it crawls all over him. He begins crying in earnest. “What was that?”

“Dean,” Castiel tries, features suddenly ridden with worry.

God, that name sounds so perfect coming from Cas’s lips. But the light in Dean’s house is still burning and the night is still stifling and Lisa is still his girlfriend and Dean’s head is still spinning and Dean still hates himself and that he has loved Cas for fourteen years and that he cannot find happiness inside himself; he hates the sound of his father’s voice in his ears and that he still misses John and that he never got closure and never got a goodbye, he hates that Cas is leaving and—oh, God—he hates that Cas even thought to promise to stay.

“Don’t say my name like that—” Dean shakes his head, moving away from the other boy. “Why did you—what are you doing? Why did you do that? I’m with _Lisa—”_

“I’m sorry,” Cas shakes his head. “I—I thought—” He stammers, “Dean, I _love_ you.”

Dean wipes his hands frantically on his jeans, tries to scour his thoughts, his feelings, from his own frame, so that he can be just that, a frame. A frame who doesn’t hurt, who doesn’t burn, who doesn’t bleed, who doesn’t feel, who isn’t drowning at the thought of his best friend going and isn’t gasping at the thought that he might stay.

He scrubs harder and tries to scour how much he liked the kiss from himself.

He scrubs harder and tries to scour that hatred from himself.

“I got that,” He shakes his head, unable to look at Castiel. What could he clean from himself? His queerness? His father’s hatred for it? His feelings for Cas? His own hatred for them? “But you fucking _kissed_ me.”

“I thought—you loved—”

Dean’s gaze snaps back up to Castiel.

“You thought I loved you,” Dean says, lip curling. Castiel shakes his head, bunching his hands worriedly together.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m—” Dean tears his gaze away from Castiel and looks out onto the street, staring at the light from his mother’s bedroom. Cas loving him… Cas promising to stay… Dean loving Cas but being unable to love him, Dean longing for Cas to stay but unable to ask… Dean’s mom watching Dean roll and reel and burn and blaze through all these years, even after her husband’s death, and saying nothing. If she were okay with Dean being queer, she would have said it by now. Wouldn’t she? “I’m _straight,_ Cas, how many times have I got to say it?! You _know_ I’m straight—why would you do that?”

Castiel shakes his head, blinking numbly as though he’s watching the world whirl right past him and is unable to stop it, unable to hold on. Fear shrouds the initial shock that had smeared itself across his features.

“I’m sorry,” He says again, “I must’ve—I thought, after everything you’ve been saying tonight—that maybe you felt the same—but I guess I was wrong—”

“You _guess?”_ Dean repeats, nearly spitting the words out.

With terror, he realises how much he sounds like his father.

Is this it? Whatever Dean does, now, he’s doomed to hate himself: he could come out to Cas, tell him how he feels, and be scratched raw every day by the hateful things he was taught all through his youth. He could tell Cas how he feels, and Cas would stay, and so, to scratch at Dean even more until the scratches became burns, Dean would know that it was he who had crushed Cas’s dream out of nothing but selfish desire. Cas would grow to hate him; the seed of sacrifice would grow and sour into something poisonous, would bear bitter fruit as Cas realised how unworthy Dean was of his time, his love, his martyrdom. Sacrifice would spawn resentment and maybe even hate. How could Dean live with Cas hating him, with his best friend considering him a burden?

And Dean’s other option is turning Cas down, lying to him, biting down on his feelings, as he has always done, which has turned out fine, so far—has hurt no one but Dean, who _is_ no one, so what does it matter?

And Cas—Cas would go to England and get over it. Dean is—Cas would fall in love with some English guy—or girl—and get married and be happy and it would be better for him, anyway. Dean is a strange and sour breed of person and to poison anyone other than himself, with himself, would be selfish beyond forgiveness.

“I _was_ wrong,” Castiel corrects, hands fumbling. “I really thought, after everything you were saying—”

“How long?” Dean asks. He looks up at Castiel with trembling seriousness. How long. He wants to know, and smoulders with that longing, how long Cas has burned for Dean, if he has smoked and sputtered and been left scathed the same way Dean has, with the same crackling desire, tenderness, joy and heartache.

“What?” Castiel asks.

But how could Cas ever? How could _anyone?_

“How long have you felt like this?” Dean asks. “Only tonight, right? It’s only ‘cause you’re sad about Samandriel, and scared of moving—”

“No, it’s not that, Dean,” Castiel frowns and shakes his head.

Of course, this being the out that Dean has provided them for rescuing their friendship, Cas is refusing to take it.

“No, it must be,” Dean’s lip curls. “You like Samandriel, not me, and now you’re feeling heartbroken—”

“Yes, heartbroken,” Castiel agrees, “but over _you,_ not him—” _Damn it._ They could sweep this under the carpet, pretend Cas doesn’t actually feel this way and was just drunk—but Cas isn’t letting go. And the thought of losing Cas as a friend, as well as to England, is numbing Dean with fear. “—I’ve loved you, since—well,” He swallows, “since we first met, I’m sure of it—”

“Bullshit,” Dean bites.

Oh, God—but still, Dean hopes beyond hope it’s true. The words both sweeten and rot his system.

“No, Dean, I mean it,” Cas glares. “Maybe I didn’t know what it was, and didn’t know what to call it—but I realised, I think, when we were fourteen, and you were—”

There’s no recovering it. This is it, Dean realises. He can’t make Cas stay, so he can’t tell him how he feels. He also can’t face himself, or his mom, so he can’t tell Cas how he feels. And he can’t turn Cas away without breaking the other boy’s heart, and… and losing him as a friend.

And he has to turn Cas down so unmistakably that the fact that Dean _definitely_ kissed Cas back, _definitely_ enjoyed it, is forgotten.

Dean stands, quaking. He can hardly see for sorrow.

“This is gross, Cas,” He shakes his head. Castiel stands after him, offense stinging his features.

 _“Gross?”_ He repeats. He’s standing too close to Dean, again, so close that Dean can smell his hair and his clothes and the breath that had been mingling with his a cluster of starlit moments ago. Dean pushes him away again, the motion still pricked with venom.

“Yeah, gross,” Dean repeats. “You’re—you’re telling me all this shit, I don’t know what to do with it, how to process it, why’re you telling me now?” Which is a question that, if Cas dissected it, he’d realise was the source of half Dean’s protests. If Cas had left it, only a month, or any other night, hadn’t framed it into terms of going or not going, Dean could unknot everything—could unknot the ruins left on himself that track his own hatred of himself and who he is, could unknot Cas’s worries of leaving and promise of staying, could unknot the confession the other boy has just poured into his lap and expects _Dean,_ king of saying the wrong thing, to react to. “I don’t get it—”

“You feel the same,” Cas shakes his head slowly, staring at Dean as though he has caught a drop of stardust trailing across Dean’s eyes and will swim through all the murky waters in the world to get to it. “You must do—even if you didn’t realise how I felt—you know now, and you feel the same,” Castiel shakes his head, and Dean does the same, terrified. “You _kissed_ me, you kissed me back, I _felt_ you kiss me back—straight or not—”

 _“You_ kissed _me—”_

“But you—” Castiel fumbles, desperate, making Dean look away for the raw agony of it all and how right Cas really is, “you kissed back—I felt it—I’d do anything for you, Dean, and I know you’d do the same for me—you _do,_ don’t lie, I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it. Why would you lie? Why do you lie, now? I know—I have to know—We’ve shared the same bed, we spend all our time together, you said I was _everything,_ you—”

“God, Cas!” Dean shouts, shoving at Castiel again, who stops, hands shaking, beautiful blue eyes stitched to Dean’s face. “It’s wrong,” Dean shakes his head, “you’re _wrong,_ and I could never—I don’t feel that way about you—I couldn’t—” Dean balls his fist, all but gritting his teeth for what’s coming next. “You’re not—I’m not like that, Castiel, I never—”

But of course, Cas can’t stop pressing. Stubborn bastard that he is, he can’t drop it, can’t just let that be _it._

“But you—”

“You’re wishing for things that aren’t there, man,” Dean bites out. He glares. “They never will be. You’re wrong.”

Castiel steps forward again with the look he was wearing before he kissed Dean, the first time. A hungry, gorgeous look that makes Dean feel as though he could crawl out of his own skin; a look like a forest on fire.

Dean shoves, shoves, _shoves_ him back.

And Cas’s expression kills him.

“Go to England,” Dean shakes his head, tears streaming onto his cheeks.

This is it, he realises.

This is goodbye.

He can’t make Cas stay, and he won’t let him. And the only way of doing that is pushing him away, hard. So hard it bruises and breaks both of them.

“Go to England. You—you’re wanted there. You should be there. Not here. And not with me—never with me—never like that.” He swallows. “I’m not sorry. Don’t bring it up again.”

“Dean,” Castiel’s hands shake, he wipes at his tears with his sleeve. “I’m sorry, then—but don’t talk like that—you’re my best friend, and I—I misread, I misread—”

But Dean is already too crushed.

All that he had with Cas was all he will ever get: fourteen years of longing for a kiss that destroyed them both.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean shakes his head, making his way to the edge of the roof to climb down, like he always does. “Nothing matters… None of it… Go to Cambridge… Leave me, leave, leave… Go…”

Dean is broken and breaking more, ground down into salt and ash and still, _still_ Cas can’t think to drop it, can’t think to let him go, can’t think but to rattle further at Dean’s already aching skull like it’s a toy.

“Dean—”

“Fuck you!” Dean spits, turning around. _Fuck you! Fuck you and your father who loves you no matter who you are, who you love! Fuck you for the fact I never got that! Fuck you for making me love you! Fuck you for making the mistake of loving me, too! Fuck you for promising to stay, when I could never ask you to! Fuck, fuck,_ fuck _you!_ “It’s not gonna happen, Castiel! It never could! I’m—I’m not—” He looks down at the garden below. Then, without another word, he half-jumps, half clambers down from the roof of the porch roof. Only at the bottom does he bite into his right fist, hard enough to draw blood, to choke his own sobs as he hears Castiel’s above him.

He paces into his own house—not home, never home—and slams the front door, thundering up the stairs to his bedroom, and slamming his bedroom door behind him. He leans up against it for a moment and chokes before biting down onto his forearm. Then he turns to his window and rips the curtains closed, shaking and crying silently.

His head is reeling.

He turns and punches a hole in his wardrobe door. It splinters into his knuckles. The world is bleeding, he is bleeding, he has left Cas bleeding out on the roof of the house that was more of a home to Dean than the one he sobs in, now—a house he can never return to. He bleeds, Cas bleeds, they all bleed. He hears a door open and recognises the sound of his mom’s footsteps. They stop just outside his door and wait there, listening. Dean waits and listens too, kneeling down onto the floor and biting his tears into his bloodied fist. He imagines his mother’s breathing at the door. The only real sound is the rain as it begins, thundering in rugged earnest confusion like Dean’s thoughts—and, though maybe he imagines it, Dean thinks he can hear the reverberations of another teenage boy crying out in the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you can! You've all been wonderfully patient, thank you so so so much <3


	41. The Things I Swore I'd Always Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's 41! Hope you all enjoy it. As a mild spoiler, the story is gonna start going in the direction of Dean and Sam healing (like, on a personal level, and on a relational level). It's wholesome fluff and there's still gonna be a buttload of Dean/Cas coming up, obviously.
> 
> Thank you to all those who commented on chapter 40!

 

**Present Day**

 

There’s very little that’s more terrifying than your little brother tasting death. And this isn’t even the first time. What’s never understated is the thrumming terror in response to not knowing what overdosing will have done, this time around. The same questions skitter along the cave walls of Dean’s skull: _Sammy’s alive, but what does ‘living’ mean, now? How much of him is left? How much damage has he done?_

And, once these questions are answered, there’s the terror of, _is he angry with me? Will he blame me for this? Does he want to see me? Will he even_ let _me see him?_

Well, a nurse has just answered one of those questions for Dean, and it’s strange to have them placed in such a jumbled order: he’s going in to see Sammy, knowing Sammy actually _wants_ to see him—an actual first, after an overdose—and he has no idea how much of Sammy is left. Considering the fact that after overdosing, Sammy has never wanted to see him before, the signs aren’t promising.

So, needless to say, stepping into the hospital room in which Sammy is lying is pretty fucking terrifying.

The nurse closes the door behind him. Dean stares, terrified, at Sam—a mess of sallow, waxy skin and tubes running against it. His cheeks are pale, he looks weak. His eyes are weirdly sunken. It’s all familiar and just as horrible as the first time. Familiar doesn’t mean getting used to it, Dean realises. It means trudging through.

And Dean stares at Sam, terrified and trying to hide it, and Sam looks back.

“Jeez, Dean, I’m not exactly in a position to bite you,” He laughs.

Relief seeps through all of Dean’s limbs, and he just about manages to crack a smile.

“I dunno, Sam,” He shakes his head, “I know how this usually goes down. You might as well crack on and tell me how this is all my fault.”

Sammy lifts his lips but looks away.

“Yeah…” His gaze slides over to the pale blue wall on his right.

Damn—Dean realises he doesn’t know how to do this without taking any cheap shots; and just as much as he was expecting to have Sammy being all defensive—so defensive it was rude—Sammy was expecting reprimand and rebuke instead of comfort from his older brother. And Dean’s given him exactly what he expected, and he’s not been in here twenty seconds.

He tears up.

“God, I’m glad you’re okay, Sammy,” He just about manages to sigh out. Sam looks back at him, worried. Dean scrubs at his eyes.

“I’m sorry…” He murmurs, but Dean shakes his head.

“No—you’re alive—you have no idea how glad I am—”

“Dean—”

“Can I sit?” Dean asks, interrupting. Sam actually laughs—well, close to it, something crackling and raspy but _definitely_ warm escapes his lips.

“I invited you in, didn’t I?” Sam replies. Dean smiles with nervous relief and makes his way over to his brother.

“Yeah, but even that’s a first,” Dean points out. Sam presses his lips together.

“I thought I owed you an apology,” He says with humble quietness.

Dean stares, brow stitched loosely.

“No,” He shakes his head again, “I owe _you_ one.”

“For what?”

“I’ve—the fight we had, yesterday—I said some—”

“We _both_ did.”

“No,” Dean glares, taking Sam’s hand in both of his, “you’re gonna let me apologise, damn it—”

Sam laughs again, but Dean ignores it.

“I was an ass, Sam,” He presses on. “You didn’t deserve any of the shit I gave you—I’m your big brother, you know? I should have your back, and I didn’t—I was just angry and tired and sad and scared and I lashed out, I pushed you away when I should’ve pulled you close. It was wrong—I let you down, and I’m sorry—”

“Dean, that is some typical BS,” Sam rolls his eyes. “Literally the only reason I’m sat in this bed is because of _me_. You didn’t let me down—I mean, how are you even meant to support your junkie little brother? The only person who makes me take smack is me—”

“Shut up,” Dean looks away. “That’s not how it is, at all.”

Sam snorts.

Dean looks back at him.

“There was a moment, there, Sammy,” Dean begins, shaking his head. His jaw clenches. “There was a moment, there—in the car on the way over here, where I thought—”

But he can’t say it.

A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitches.

Dean blinks through his tears; speaking is hard.

“And I wondered,” He tries again, “I wondered what the last thing I said to you, was.” He swallows hard, and Sammy does the same. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t stop thinking of all the hateful things I said to you, just that morning—and which was the one that hurt you most—and which was the one that you heard, last.” Sam begins to cry in earnest, now, hardly able to look at Dean. Dean wipes away his own tears, then pushes a couple of sweat-damp hairs back from his brother’s forehead, catching a couple of his brother’s tears. He swallows thickly. “I don’t ever want to be thinking that way, again, Sam.”

Sam can’t look at him, now. He keeps on nodding and crying silently as his breathing makes a quiet rattling noise.

“I’m sorry,” He says again, but Dean shakes his head and presses his forehead to the crown of Sam’s head.

“ _I’m_ sorry,” He states—and Sam laughs tearily, and so does Dean. “I’ve been a bad big brother to you.”

“And I’ve been a bad _little_ brother to _you—”_

“You can’t be a bad little brother,” Dean shakes his head, drawing back, “that’s not how it works.”

“It is, too,” Sam frowns. “I’ve seen how much losing Jimmy hurt you, and all I could think of was myself—”

“Hey,” Dean glares, “Jimmy meant a lot to you, too—”

“But he was a _dad_ to you,” Sam shakes his head, “and you _needed_ that.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asks, heart skipping a beat.

“And I’ve seen how much you’ve been hurting,” Sam continues, ignoring his question, “and how you’ve been looking out for me, too—”

“Telling you off all the time isn’t looking out,” Dean interrupts, at which Sam laughs.

“God, Dean—I let _you_ apologise, would you give me a chance to do the same?”

Dean grumbles and settles a little lower into his chair.

“You _barely_ gave me a chance to apologise,” He points out, but Sam doesn’t rise.

“I just wish I’d not resented you for telling me the truth—that I was hurting people, that I needed to change, that I was missing all the opportunities I should—”

“That’s not what you needed to hear,” Dean shakes his head, “and I ended up saying it out of anger, instead of out of care—”

“I don’t believe _that,”_ Sam rolls his eyes. “You were angry _because_ you cared, Dean. I know you.”

Dean’s jaw clenches and he shuffles a little lower into his seat.

“Well—if I’d been honest with myself,” Dean looks away, “I should’ve looked after you better these last couple’a months, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I forgot what grieving was like,” Dean swallows thickly. He looks round at the painted walls of the room, pale blue. He thinks of Cas—they’re nothing like the writer’s eyes—but didn’t Cas’s bedroom used to be this colour?

Dean wonders what it looks like, now.

Oh—fuck—Cas’s house. Jimmy’s house. A building that once felt like _Dean’s_ house.

Being sold.

Dean shakes his head, refocussing. One thing at a time, damn it.

“I forgot…” He murmurs, not sure how to continue. He looks back up at Sam firmly. “I didn’t have an easy relationship with dad,” He decides, and Sam just nods, like he already knew this, like this isn’t any kind of revelation—which confuses Dean, but he forges ahead. “So when he died, my feelings were all knotty. I wasn’t—I hadn’t _relied_ on him, you know? For years. It had been Jimmy—and was Jimmy even more, after that. I don’t know if I’d ever grieved for someone in a straight up, devastated way, before now. With dad it was so tangled, and Jimmy was there to talk me through it—to hold my hand through it—maybe to even _carry_ me through it. And obviously, Jimmy couldn’t do that, when _he_ died.”

“Yeah, I don’t really get what you’re driving at here, Dean,” Sammy shakes his head, squinting with confusion.

“I’m getting there,” Dean nods, distracted. “I just—I never appreciated what grief _could_ be like, you know? And I think I do, a little more, now. And so… I think… I mean, I’m only just starting to get what things were like for you, after Jess died,” Dean peers at Sam earnestly. A veil slides over Sam’s eyes, and his gaze flickers. “I know we never talk about her,” Dean shakes his head, “and I think that’s my fault. I never—I never really opened that door for you—and I’m beginning to get how hard it is for someone to knock, asking for help. And—and I know that you loved her,” Sam’s face crumples as Dean speaks, and Dean isn’t sure if he should take his brother’s hand again, or just stop talking about this. Is he prodding when he should be smoothing? “And if you don’t wanna talk about this, I get it—” But Sammy shakes his head.

“It’s fine.”

It sure doesn’t look it.

“But I also get that Jess is the person you would’ve gone to, if you were feeling _anything._ So it must’ve been all kinds of hell to be feeling so much, and have the one person you wanted to talk to about it, gone.”

Sam tries to swallow.

“…Yeah,” He admits, looking troubled.

“But maybe this is a conversation for another time,” Dean berates himself for troubling Sam even _more._ “All I wanted to say was—the offer’s there. And—I—these two months I’ve been drinking myself to death—I’ve actually got a pretty mean hangover, right now,” Dean admits, rubbing the back of his neck. Sammy glances back up at him, semi-bemused, worry still angling at his features. “And the only difference between my self-destructive habit and yours is legality, which is pretty arbitrary, so…” Dean trails off. “What I’m trying to say, is, I’ve done a bad job at understanding you, the past couple of years, and I’m sorry. I’m starting to understand you better, and I’m starting to realise that all of that BS I’d been spewing about how I was the one who picked up the pieces all the time was just that: BS. I hope you can forgive me.”

Sam gives a small smile and looks down.

“You’ve always been the one to pick up the pieces, Dean,” He says, quietly. “Seriously. Like, where’s mom right now?” Dean flushes and cannot answer. “Exactly. She bails every time the going gets tough. You never have.” He looks up at Dean, whose eyes are prickling. “Seriously. I’m so grateful.”

Dean swallows back tears and looks away.

“Thanks, Sammy.”

“Are you really hungover?” He asks. Amusement ekes into the edges of his words and fills them with a much-needed lighthearted buzz. Dean glances back at him and is glad to see his brother is almost wearing a smirk.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Dean shakes his head, groaning.

 _“Why?”_ Sam asks, beginning to laugh.

“God, why anything?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Because I drank a lot, last night, because I have an unhealthy coping mechanism.”

“Join the club.”

Dean smirks, shaking his head.

“I really am glad you’re okay,” He peers up at his brother, earnestly. “I promise I’m gonna start being a better big brother to you.”

“You’re already—”

“Nah,” Dean disagrees, “I’ve been doing the bare minimum. I’m gonna start picking up my own slack.” He sits up in his chair, leaning forward. “For one thing, we’re gonna get you out of that dingy apartment,” Sam looks at him with a quizzical frown. “I’m not kidding, buddy, it’s bad for you in there. That place is toxic. A stranger could see it, just by walking in. It leaves a bad taste—and it’s not good for you to be living on your own. We’re gonna get you treatment—”

“Dean,” Sam interrupts, looking pained, “you’ve already spent so much on me—medical bills, counselling—you’ve got about _three_ jobs, damn it—”

“You’re worth it,” Dean shakes his head, quickly. “You’re gonna live with me. You should’ve, a long time ago—I mean, there’s a spare room, and everything, since Benny moved out—don’t look at me like that, Sam, this isn’t an empty offer. I mean it. You’re getting out of that dingy apartment and I promise I’m gonna look out for you.”

Sam is the one to take Dean’s hand, this time.

“Thanks, Dean.”

“It’s no problem.”

A moment’s grateful quiet.

“So why _did_ you get drunk?”

Dean rolls his eyes and rocks back on his chair.

“’Cause I thought it would be a great idea to alienate everyone I love.”

“Did I see Cas, earlier?” Sam asks, and Dean balks. “Out there?” He raises his index finger in the smallest of gestures to point to the windows looking out onto the hall. Dean flushes.

“Uh, yeah,” He admits. “He’s the one that drove me here. And pretty much the only reason I didn’t end up getting myself beaten to death last night, or ending up passed out in a pool of my own puke and blood.”

Sam wrinkles his nose.

“Nice,” He comments.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Dean deadpans.

“Classy.”

“Don’t get me started.”

Sam snorts.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad _you’re_ okay.”

Dean looks down, mouth twitching.

“Yeah, just about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam asks with a frown.

Dean glances up at him.

Should he tell the truth?

He never has before.

“Cas is moving.”

“Moving?”

“As in,” Dean sighs, “selling Jimmy’s house.”

Sam sits up at this. It obviously causes him a lot of pain.

_“What?!”_

Dean pushes his brother back onto the bed, gently.

“Yeah,” He nods. “After—well, after we had our… fight, yesterday—I wanted to go talk to Cas about. We’ve—well, we’ve been talking more. We hadn’t for a couple of days, because—” Here, Dean cuts himself off. “Well, that’s another story. Anyway, I pulled up and saw this great big fuck off, FOR SALE sign out in front of Jimm—” But he can’t say it. “The Novak’s house,” He decides. “And—” He struggles for words. “I dunno, Sammy,” He shrugs, shaking his head. “I guess it just kind of broke me.”

His brother peers gently at him while he speaks. “So I went to see mom—to talk to her about you, and on top of that, the Novaks, now—and—I guess I wanted to talk to her about some other stuff… But,” Dean laughs, “she was fucking useless, of course. Said she couldn’t handle worrying about you with everything else that was going on, that I shouldn’t have shouted at you—well, she was right about that—and then she said that I was only making it worse… And the other stuff that I wanted to talk to her about,” Dean swallows thickly, but his eyes are burning. “Well… She just… She didn’t even allow a window for it. Just… shut me out. So I stormed out. And Cas was selling, and it was all hitting me, and I felt like I didn’t have a home, and I’d just reached out to mom, which hadn’t worked, and I’d just cut you off, and I felt as though Cas had cut _me_ off—so I felt as though I had no one, you know? So, naturally, I went and got… super drunk.”

“You said you nearly got beaten to death.”

“Not _nearly—”_ Dean corrects with a scowl, “I was doing _fine—”_ Sam huffs indignantly. “But… yeah. That’s the next part of the story,” Dean admits.

“You got in a fight?”

“I went to some dive bar on the other side of town,” Dean explains. “Shady place, but cheap, and I wanted to get _wasted._ I stopped off at a liquor store, before—ah, fuck,” Dean groans.

“What?” Sam asks, worried.

“I don’t know where I parked my car,” Dean rubs his face with his palms. Sam begins to laugh.

“Devastating,” He presses his lips together. Dean scowls at his brother’s sarcasm. “Then what happened?”

Dean sits back. Does he really want to tell Sammy this?

“I’d met one of the guys at the bar, before…” His jaw clenches.

“And, what, he didn’t like you?”

“You could say that…”

“God, stop being so mysterious.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean glares. Maybe it’s not _easy_ to talk about. “Anyway, we got in a fight, and it would’ve been fine if all the rest of his punk-ass, bigoted biker cronies hadn’t gotten involved—but they did, and, well—six against one—”

“Jeez, Dean,” Sam sighs, exasperated. “You’re a catastrophe.”

At this point, Sam’s assertion is pretty undeniable.

“Tell me about it. Anyway, the manager kicked me out before things got _too_ serious. But like, literally, kicked me out. My head hit the curb. That’s about all I can remember, just about… But then Cas was there—I guess he must’ve found me—” Dean rubs his head, it feels tender from where he probably hit it last night. “And then I _really_ can’t remember anything…” He grimaces. “God…”

“What?”

“Well, I just… I could’ve said _anything_ to him…”

“Anything?”

“Like, anything embarrassing.”

“What could you say to Cas that’d be embarrassing?”

Dean flushes deep and painful. He swallows a bunch of times and somehow still can’t answer. Sam peers at him and presses his lips together.

“Y’know, Dean, just because dad didn’t understand you, and mom is refusing to—it doesn’t mean that the same will be true for me.”

Dean sighs, clasping his hands, and resolves to stare at the ground.

“I can’t believe we’re talking about _my_ problems while you’re literally sat there on life support.”

“Literally?” Sam repeats, raising his eyebrows at his brother.

“You know what I mean.”

“I can’t believe we’re sat here, talking about your problems, while you _literally_ can’t work out the difference between literally and figuratively.”

“I’m not talking _figuratively_ when I say that I _literally_ want to punch you right now,” Dean scowls. “How’s that for a start?”

Sam begins to laugh, like he did when they were kids, only rattled by flimsy lungs and tubes rammed into his body.

“I’ve missed this,” He smiles. Dean does, too, though it hurts.

“When you move in to my place, you’ll get a whole lot more of it.”

“What, bullying?”

“Uh-huh,” Dean confirms with a grin. Sam returns the look.

“When will that be?”

“Soon as you’re out of here.”

“That a promise?”

“You bet,” Dean’s eyes have gone older-brother soft.

“Cool,” Sam smiles, lopsided. “I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.”

“And hey,” Sam says, as though suddenly struck by a thought—but it’s a little theatrical, and Dean finds it suspicious. “If I talk to you about Jess—which I swear I will—will you talk to me, _please,_ about whatever it is you’re going through?”

“What, grieving Jimmy?”

“Yes,” Sam answers thoughtfully, “but, also… Also all the stuff mom shut out. The stuff she wouldn’t let you talk to her about.” He looks up at Dean with the expression of a great big puppy dog. “I get that there are times when the mood for opening up hits, and times when it’s really not there—and I don’t want to force anything from you. Yesterday I guess you were feeling ready to confront mom and talk candidly, and maybe you won’t feel like that again for a while. But, if I’m honest with you, can you try to be, with me? Can you promise me that?”

Dean’s cheeks are still pink, but his heart has gone embarrassingly tender.

“I can try,” He nods, looking down at his worried hands. He nods. He looks back up to Sam. “I promise I’ll try.”

Sam beams.

“Thank you.”

Dean manages to smile back.

“Can I see him?” Sam asks. Dean frowns quizzically. “Cas, I mean,” Sam clarifies. Dean’s cheeks flame all the more.

“Uh—why—”

“To thank him for looking after my big brother, you dummy,” Sam answers in a goofy voice that nearly makes Dean swat at him.

“You’re an ass.”

“You’d rather that I _didn’t_ thank him?”

Dean rolls his eyes and stands up.

“Or maybe I should insult him, instead?” Sam asks. “How does this sound— _hey, Cas, I hear you waited the whole night in a hospital ward with my drunk brother just to make sure we were both okay. You’re an idiot. Fuck you.”_

“Man, it’s too bad you quit that comedy club in college, you’re fucking _hilarious,”_ Dean makes his way over to the door.

“Yeah, if I hadn’t, maybe I would’ve made it really big and gotten into _coke_ instead of heroin. Can you imagine?”

“God, Sam—”

“Too soon?”

“A little.”

“Let me know when it’s not. I’ve got a lot of good cracks about being a junkie to practice on you.”

“Right,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I hope _that’s_ a joke.”

“Only I’m allowed to make them, though.”

“I mean, that seems fair enough,” Dean opens the door. “Please don’t insult Cas,” He glances back at his brother, who smirks.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Dean isn’t sure he wants to think about what the smirk means. He glances out onto the corridor and is bewildered to see Cas literally lying, fast asleep, on the floor.

“Jeez…” He mumbles, and Ellen and Jo begin giggling from where they sit, next to each other, nearby.

“He was out like a light pretty much as soon as you went in,” Ellen informs him. Dean’s heart goes oddly tender.

“He must’ve been tired…” Dean murmurs, gazing at the other man. There’s total stillness in those charcoal eyelashes; no fluttering, no flickering. Fast asleep. Dean has so many memories of this, when he and Cas used to sleepover. The pillowmarks that’d be left on Cas’s face. The scruffy hair. As they grew older, the suggestion of stubble. How much Dean wanted to rub himself against it.

“You going?” Jo asks. Dean shakes his head.

“I’ve been sent to get Cas.”

Jo giggles.

“Good luck waking him.”

“Yeah, I’m wondering how I should…” Dean frowns, pressing his lips together.

Jo’s expression turns serious.

“How is he? How are you?”

The edge of her voice is frayed by poorly concealed worry.

Dean smiles reassuringly, relieved just at the thought of his answer.

“Both alive, so good,”—Jo seeps with relief at his words, Ellen hugs her to her side. “He’s making jokes, still feeling grim, insulting me just the right amount.”

Jo laughs, but it’s overtaken by tears of relief. Ellen nods with misty eyes.

Dean glances back at Castiel. “How should I wake him?”

“Cas!” Jo shouts, enough to make both Dean and Ellen jump.

“Jo!” Ellen hisses, but at Jo’s yell, Cas has jumped awake. Dean begins to laugh at how undeniably ridiculous the other man looks.

“Dude,” He shakes his head. “What’re you doin’ down there?”

“Sleeping…” Castiel frowns, rubbing his eyes. “Which shouldn’t be so comical to _you,_ Dean, since you spent so much of tonight, asleep on the floor, too.”

Dean snorts.

With a sudden frown, alertness floods Cas’s features and demeanour. He sits up quick enough to give Dean headrush.

“How is he?” He asks quickly.

God—and why does Cas even care? How could he, after all this time, after everything Dean _said_ to him, nine years ago? After how Dean shut him out, after Dean got so mortifyingly _drunk_ last night? Nine years later, Castiel is still just as downright, undeniably _good_ as he was when Dean first met him.

“He wants to see you,” Dean smiles. “Come on in.” And then, to tease, “If you think you’re awake enough.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and gets up, making his way over to Dean, and enters Sam’s room looking as awkward as Dean is sure he must feel.

“Sam,” He nods, hovering at the door. “I, uh—I’m glad you’re—”

“I said he wanted you _in,_ Cas, not _out,”_ Dean rolls his eyes, and Castiel steps into the room properly, apologetically, closing the door behind him as Dean sits back down.

“Thank you, Sam…”

Even at these three words, adoration washes itself in a burst of tight coils all along Dean’s veins.

“No,” Sam shakes his head, “it’s me and Dean _,_ who should be thanking _you.”_

Castiel fidgets uncomfortably, reluctant, as ever, to take credit where it’s due and admit that _actually,_ Dean and Sam owe him big time.

“Take a seat,” Sam gestures to the empty chair, beside Dean’s. Castiel hovers a moment, uncertain.

“I really—this is time for you and Dean—and I should get some sleep—”

Dean’s heart drops into his stomach with disappointment.

“You’re not gonna let a junkie thank you for saving his brother’s life?” Sam asks with a hoarse laugh. Castiel softens. Dean is touched by the tears that prickle at the writer’s eyes. Damn it, how can he be so invested in Dean and Sam’s lives, even now, even after everything, even after all these years? He has every right not to give a shit, and yet here he is, _crying_ over Sam in a hospital bed.

“You’re not a junkie…”

Sam gestures to the tubes covering him.

“Sure looks that way, huh?”

“And I didn’t _save_ Dean—”

But Sam won’t allow it.

“Siddown, Cas.”

Dean glances at Sam, gratefully, and doesn’t actually expect his brother to be looking back at him. He flushes hard.

But the writer does as he’s told.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Cas says, staring at the younger Winchester brother.

“Yeah…” Sam shifts. Dean doesn’t like the look he begins wearing, now—all shame and an obvious swim of ugly thoughts. “I’m sorry if I had you all worried—”

“Hey,” Dean says quickly, reaching out to run a hand over Sam’s forehead. “You’re worth worrying about.”

Sam’s eyes swim for a moment and he looks away.

 “Anyway,” He says, eyes on a removed corner of the room as he recovers himself. “I wanted to let you know, I’m grateful. And, uh—best of luck, in your new home.” Dean’s heart drops into his stomach. Regret floods him instantly at sharing this detail of yesterday with his younger brother. Oh, shit. _Sam!_ “I guess this might be the last time we see each other, for a while, at least?”

Castiel frowns.

“What?”

Sam imitates the expression.

“With, y’know, you moving, and all? Selling your old home?”

Dean’s insides begin to froth.

Castiel glances at him as he tries to minimise his nervous squirming.

“Oh,” The writer says. “I’d—completely forgotten.” He frowns distantly for a moment before his gaze flickers back over to Sam. “How did you know about that?”

“Dean told me,” Sam gestures to his older brother with his thumb, a minute motion, while Dean’s cheeks, ears and neck flame. _Fuck you, Sammy,_ he thinks, radiating the thought in his brother’s direction. Sam seems to pick it up, because he looks up at Dean innocently, but there’s a deep cunning smugness beneath it. What’s he planning? Dean tries to radiate thoughts of _Don’t you dare try anything, drop it now,_ over to his brother, but Cas begins to speak again.

“Oh—well—” Castiel shakes his head, as though attempting to rinse an excess of thoughts from himself. He looks a little distressed, and the kind of tired a toddler gets after having too much of an exciting day. “No,” He says.

“No?” Sam pulls a puzzled expression. Dean sits forward without realising it.

“I’m not—I think—I won’t sell,” Castiel says, glancing at Dean, who struggles to cover up the fact he’s coming a little short of breath.

“Wait—really?” Dean asks, then reddens as he realises he speaks.

Castiel looks at him and nods.

“I—I think it was a foolish decision,” He answers, speaking like he did when they were kids, and Cas was saying something deliberately sensible. “And one I made too quickly. I was being—well. Me.”

“You?”

“I wasn’t listening to the advice of my brothers,” Castiel answers. “Or, I suppose, the advice of my heart.” He looks at Dean, then at the floor. Dean can’t stop staring, heart twitching nervously. “But I am, now…” He says, softly. He looks up. Dean almost recoils at the intensity of his gaze. “I am, now,” He repeats. “But—Sam—I can’t believe we’re talking about me _moving._ How’re you feeling?”

Sam ignores him.

“So you’re not selling, then?” He asks. Dean flushes at his brother’s candidness.

Castiel grumbles, probably at Sam’s amazing ability to both nag and ignore at the same time.

“Not selling—for now, at least.”

“Okay,” Sam answers, reluctantly appeased.

But Dean is swept with relief.

 _How long?_ He wants to ask. _How long do I have to show you how sorry I am? How much I love you? How long do I get to persuade you never to leave, again?_

“How’re you feeling, Sam?” Castiel presses. The younger Winchester looks up again.

“Oh,” He laughs, “just… swell.”

“Don’t be an ass, Sammy,” Dean scowls. _“You_ invited him in here.”

Sam shoots an apologetic look to the floor near Dean’s feet, then glances back up at the writer.

“You really wanna know?” He raises his eyebrows at Castiel, who nods sincerely, the little crease between his eyebrows and the one on his forehead a telltale sign: Cas really fucking cares. Dean’s insides knot.

Sam laughs.

“Then fuck, I feel like death. Goddamn awful. Like my insides are being dragged through a shredder, and my brain is being sanded, and half of everything’s cold, but half of everything else is, like, _solar_ temperatures.”

Well, at least he was honest.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Sam shrugs. _“I_ did this to myself. Not you.”

“But I’m still sorry for it.”

The sentiment seems to comfort Sam.

Fuck, Dean is glad Cas is here.

 “Could be worse,” Sam shrugs. “I’m, uh, not dead,” He says, grimly, “and I have my brother here,”—Dean’s heart is warmed—“and my friends,” He gestures outside the windows of the room, to where Ellen and Jo are situated. That sounds about right. No mention of Mary: no Mary in sight. “And hey, Dean’s hungover! So I’m in good company, regarding the whole, feeling like a shitstain, thing.”

“Yeah, talk a little quieter, please, Sam,” Dean grimaces. Sam cracks a smile, this one sincere.

“Anyway,” He turns back to Castiel. “You look tired. And I wanted to say thank you, which I have. Unless—” He turns to his brother, “do you have anything you’d like to say to Cas?”

Dean’s stomach drops.

Oh, God.

He barely has the capacity for concentration to conjugate a reply, let alone focus his thoughts on _fuck you, Sammy, you’re ruining my life._

“Uh,” Dean balks. “Yeah—thanks—I guess—I mean, of course—thanks, for everythin’—” Damn, he sounds like an idiot, and thank goodness Cas interrupts him—but not really, because Dean wants Cas to stay, stay, stay forever—and with Cas’s generous interruption, he stands up.

“It’s fine,” Castiel shakes his head. Sam glares at his brother, practically boring a hole into the side of Dean’s face with his silent reprimand of _why didn’t you say something else, you fucking idiot._ Dean nearly laughs to himself with the thought that there’s no point in _Sammy_ thinking this, when Dean’s already thinking it, and berating himself, too. “I’ll, uh—come back and visit, in a couple of hours? If that’s okay? With both of you?”

Sam looks back up at him.

“No problems here,” He smiles emphatically. Dean flushes. Now he thinks he understands what it’s like having an older brother around to embarrass you all the time. Was he ever like this with Sammy? Is this karma?

And hold on—why’s Sammy acting this way. Does he—does he _know?_

Sam hits him lightly, sparking Dean back into action and reality, the gesture hidden so that Cas can’t possibly have seen it.

“No,” Dean agrees, shaking, then nodding his head. “No, yeah—no problems—we’d—I’d—yeah,” He nods. “Would be nice to see you.”

God, he sounds like an idiot.

But Castiel smiles. And like that, Dean forgets everything—even his own embarrassment.

“Then I’ll come over,” He promises. “See you soon.”

Dean gets up. Castiel looks taken aback. Honestly, Dean surprised _himself_ with this one.

“Thank you, Cas,” Is all he says, staring intently at his friend. He can’t rip his eyes away. He can’t articulate how grateful he is—for everything. He also can’t bring himself to hug Castiel, which is what he wants to do, more than anything else. _Damn it._ Castiel smiles, mouth closed, nods, and leaves. The door closes with a sense of strange finality behind him. Dean watches him go, heart tender. Nothing is said. Vaguely, he’s aware of Sam staring at him as he watches Cas through the windows. But he can’t turn back.

“He’ll be back,” Sam says, as Dean’s heart crumbles a little, watching Cas wave goodbye to Ellen and go.

“Yeah…” Dean murmurs, uncertain.

“He waited all night,” Sam points out. Dean flushes, still watching the direction Cas left in.

Dean turns back.

“How’re you feeling?” He changes the subject.

Sam smiles weakly.

“Fine. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” Dean answers.

“These hospital lights doing a number on you?” Sam asks.

Dean groans with a laugh.

“Oh my God, you have no idea.”

Sam chuckles.

“I do,” He nods. “You and me both, buddy.”

“D’you wanna see Ellen and Jo?” Dean asks, but just as he does so, a woman in blue scrubs with long dark hair tied back enters with a clipboard.

“Hi, I’m your new doctor,” She smiles, to Sam, something in her voice muted in a way that makes Dean frown, confused.

Sam, being the genius that he is—or maybe just an ounce more perceptive than Dean is, signs—because of course he knows sign language, and replies,

“Hi, I’m Sam.”—Though it looks like the use of his hands is pretty painful.

Her smile is warm in response.

“Eileen,” She replies. “It’s good to meet you.”

Sam’s gaze is glued to her.

“My signing’s a little rusty,” He states, apologetically, still accompanying his words with sign language. “I’m sorry—”

“Most people don’t know any,” She shrugs with a smile, “and it looks like moving so much is a little hard. You can stop if you’d like.”

Sam shakes his head as Eileen flips through her notes, before glancing back up at him. His gaze hasn’t left her. Dean wants to remind him to close his mouth.

“Okay, Sam, 23—it looks like you had a nasty reaction to the naloxone—”

“You look young for a doctor,” Sam says, still staring. He forgets to sign, this time.

Eileen peers at him, expression on the brink of offense.

“I’m 26,” She replies, “an intern, and fully qualified to take care of you, if that’s what you’re worried—”

“No, no, no—” Sam shakes his head quickly, more alert than he has been all this time, “not like that—just—I mean—it was meant to be a compliment—like, you look young—”

“Nice,” Dean mutters under his breath, and _finally_ Sam looks away from his doctor to shoot daggers at Dean. Dean catches Eileen supressing a smile in his peripherals.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” Eileen smiles, “but you’d probably prefer to answer them in private. Then we can talk through your options for recovery—immediate and long term. Hopefully you’ll be out of here in no time.

Sam doesn’t seem able to reply, so Dean does for him.

“Awesome,” He smiles. “Thank you. I’m Dean—Sam’s brother.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean. Okay, I’ll give you two some time to finish up, and I’ll be back in about ten. How does that sound?”

“Good,” Dean nods. He turns to his brother. “Sam?”

Sam starts.

“Oh—good—yeah—great—”

“Great,” Eileen nods. “Dean, it was good meeting you. Sam, see you in a couple of minutes.”

“Thank you—” Sam signs quickly, at which Eileen beams, dark eyes creasing. “It was—lovely—lovely meeting you—”

Eileen smiles graciously and leaves. Sam stares at her, mouth open.

Dean bites down on his grin.

“Well, that’s cute,” He smirks, nose wrinkling.

Sam glares at him. But it doesn’t last. He watches Eileen make her way back down the hall.

“Come on.”

“Nah, I’m serious—she’s got nice eyes—”

“Yeah, shut up, Dean—”

“And she’s your _doctor._ That’s hot.”

“Yeah, there’s probably some hospital rule against it—”

“So you _do_ want to sleep with her,” Dean grins. Sam flushes.

“Dude! Shut up!” He swallows, obviously mortified. “I don’t think…” But he trails off.

Dean frowns.

“Don’t think what?”

Sam sighs.

“Even if… I’m not exactly a catch, Dean.”

Dean falters.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Sam looks frustrated and miserable and is obviously attempting some kind of apathy, “exactly what I said. Samuel Winchester: law school drop-out, 23, unemployed, depressed, about to move in with his brother, still mourning the death of his girlfriend two years later, fucked up relationship with an ex-girlfriend who he still sleeps with and takes narcotics with—narcotics that have hospitalised him on multiple occasions, a fucking _junkie—_ ”

“Well, when you put it that way, Sam…” Dean rolls his eyes. He peers at Sam, who stares down at his sheets, looking embarrassed. “I don’t think she thought of you that way,” He says, seriously.

“She doesn’t know me.”

“She had your chart right in her hand,” Dean points out. “And hey—you and me both: Dean Winchester, burnt out, 27, not had a long-term relationship for 9 years, depressed, daddy issues, heavy drinker, plays guitar in a dive bar—”

“I’ll tell Ellen you called it that,” Sam grins reluctantly.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Asshole.”

Sam laughs softly, looking away. There’s silence for a moment. Then Sam glances back to Dean, expression that amazingly thoughtful and mature one he would sometimes wear when they were kids, and Dean was upset, or needed company or comforting—and Sam, four years his junior, would be that for him. It’s not a presumptuous look. And it’s not pressing. But it _is_ earnest, and it is invested—which is why it, and the question that accompany it, slip right under Dean’s radar, and his fourteen years of self-denial and suppression.

“…So, Cas, huh?”

Dean sighs even at the name, staring at the door.

“Yeah…” He murmurs. His heart twitches in his chest. “…Honestly, Sam,” Dean shakes his head, resigned to it. “I’m kind of in love with him.”

Sam smiles. It washes through his eyes and his skin isn’t so sallow any more.

“Yeah,” He nods, speaking gently, something a little smug, but mainly warm, in his tone. “I, uh… I know.”

And just like that, Dean is out to his brother. No shouting, no hellfire, no eyes glazed with disgust. A softly smiling junkie mage of a brother seeing Dean and saying he can see him and that he’s glad he can.

And for the first time in over fourteen years, Dean gets to exhale.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! That's all pretty drastic stuff for Dean even if he's too dazed to realise it! Hope you all enjoyed x


	42. The End of Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another sad chapter (though it's a flashback, so not as sad as it could be, rather just building on sadness we already know is there). Next update should hopefully be here tomorrow or the day after! This one's a little short, but chapter 43 will be a fairly long one.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it! Thanks to everyone who's been commenting, you're the best! (and it really means a lot)

 

The next morning—well, there is no ‘next morning’. Dean stays in bed into the early afternoon, and his mom doesn’t come knocking—until, at 2.30 in the afternoon, she does. The storm raged the entire night, clearing up around 6AM, muting dawn. Dean wonders what time Cas made it into bed. _If_ he made it to bed. If he managed to sleep, any. Dean certainly didn’t.

“Dean,” Three knocks, accompanied by an eking open of the door, “are you okay? You should really get out of bed, now—”

Dean curls beneath his covers.

“I’m fine, I just didn’t sleep,” He answers. “Can you go away, please?”

The daylight creeps in shaft by shaft through Dean’s curtains wrenched clumsily shut last night. The light is clear and white, after the storm. It lands in blocks along the floor and tiptoes up to Dean’s sheets.

“Cas is downstairs…” Mary says, tone eerily lighthearted. “He’s asking if you’re around…”

Dean’s chest constricts. He curls up tighter. The wounds on his hand and wrist begin to throb.

“Tell him I’m not around…”

“You mean lie?” Mary asks, an obvious frown souring her words. Dean is turned away from the door, and cannot see her face, but he can imagine it. The stifled, unnatural way she speaks makes his skin crawl and all he can see, over and over again is Cas leaning toward him, lips parted, hunger ravaging his eyes, while the light from his mother’s bedroom is left on, across the street.

“I’m not feeling good,” Dean squeezes his hands into fists, and his wounds tear open along their seams. His eyes begin to burn. “Tell him I’m sick.”

“Dean…”

“Tell him I’m sick!” Dean shouts, beginning to cry, glad his mom can’t see it. “I don’t feel good. Leave me alone. Please…”

A moment’s silence—in which Dean realises that he really _doesn’t_ want to be alone; that the thought terrifies him—but his mother closes the door in the next.

Dean rolls over, bites into his pillow, and sobs.

 

Mary doesn’t come back to Dean’s room for the rest of the day. Dean doesn’t eat.

At about 4 in the afternoon, he gets a text.

_I’m sorry I made things weird. Please stop ignoring me. I can’t stand the thought of going to England and you not being my friend. I know I messed up and misread things. I also know you’re not sick. Please call me?_

Dean ignores it, feeling nauseated and desperate, but for some reason, totally and utterly paralysed. What would happen if he replied? Could he and Cas ever repair their friendship, after this? Is it worth trying?

Which is worse—to try, and fail; or never to try at all, and fail by default?

Another text.

_Dean. Please._

Around an hour later, Cas calls, but Dean ignores it. At Cas trying again, immediately after the first, Dean rejects it. His insides won’t stop clamping around themselves. He hasn’t eaten in nearly 24 hours. The idea makes him want to puke.

Dean falls asleep, finally, about 7 in the evening, and is out until about 2—when his old walkie talkie, plugged into the wall—for emergencies, even after all this time—rings with Cas’s muffled, crackled voice.

 _“Dean—please, don’t shut me out. I’m sorry, and I’m sorry if it’s made things weird, but please don’t react like this. It’s—”_ He breaks off. His voice is crackled both by the radio, and his own emotion. _“It’s not right, to throw away fourteen years of friendship, over this. If you would just_ talk—”

Dean picks up his radio and throws it against a wall. The sound cuts out.

He begins crying again, and can’t stop. Snot running out of his nose, face hot and soaked, sheets damp—it doesn’t matter. He can’t stop, he can’t stop.

At some point, he must fall asleep.

He starts eating again the next day, but barely.

His summer work in a garage starts and he spends most of his time there. He picks up a job waiting tables in the evenings; it’s good to keep busy and it means he won’t bump into Cas outside their houses. He stops talking to most of their old school friends because Charlie won’t stop asking him what the hell happened and Bela keeps glaring at him like she already knows. Tamara is okay, and Isaac doesn’t bring it up. Cas stops trying. No more texts, no more calls. Dean begins to long for them. He wonders how far he’s fucking things up. What would telling Cas how he felt, now, mean? Would Cas even believe him? How would it be possible?

And how would Dean bite down on his hatred of himself, long enough to do it? _John’s_ hatred for his queerness, Mary’s—well, that’s just it. What would Mary make of it? And how would Dean tell Cas, and still persuade him to go to England?

Mary doesn’t talk at dinner time. Meals are punctuated by the crisp clatter of cutlery on porcelain plates, and Sam’s worried gaze creeping up to both Dean and his mother through thick eyelashes and a mop of hair. Dean spends most of his nights at Lisa’s, until, one day, he can’t anymore.

He’s almost coward enough to do it over text. But no—Lisa deserves more than that.

And so it’s sat on her bed, two weeks after his and Cas’s fight, that Dean finally screws up the courage to cut things off. And God, does Lisa cry.

God, do both of them cry.

“I—I’m sorry, Lisa,” Dean shakes his head, pulling her close. He blinks numbly through his own tears. “I was wrong—and I don’t think I _can_ do it… I—I wish I could—but I don’t want to lie to you—not any more. You deserve better than that—you deserve better than _me—”_

Lisa’s room is dyed lilac by the afternoon light and her pale curtains. Her pristine sheets are disrupted by Dean, who creases them where he sits.

Lisa draws back, shaking her head, lips pressed together and trembling.

“That’s just the thing, Dean,” She blinks out silent tears that break Dean’s heart, “that you don’t seem to get… I never _wanted_ anything more than you. Who cares about ‘deserve’? I _loved_ you—”

Dean can’t do it. He presses his head into his hands and begins to sob.

That evening, back home, he scratches out a message on a page of his notebook, hands trembling with anticipation—more like fear, really—and a heap of adrenaline.

_Cas—_

_I’ve been an asshole, and I’m sorry. I can’t articulate it. But I really am. Please forgive me.—On the roof, that wasn’t me. I’m not like that._

_Meet me at the treehouse tonight, at 9? Let me explain. I can explain everything._

_I don’t want it to end like this._

_Dean._

He slips it through the letterbox and heads back to his room, laying out everything he needs.

Mixtape. Boombox. Blankets. A couple of candles. Wine stolen from his mom. Notebook full of all the love songs he’s ever written, and all of them for Cas. Only for Cas.

He packs a bag and carries the boombox by hand all the way to the treehouse, all through the fields and forest out of town, down the stream, over rocks and broken sticks and undergrowth. He climbs the ladder one handed and lays everything out on the floor. He even lines up two plastic cups for the wine.

And then he waits.

And waits.

His heart is in his throat as it draws close to 9PM. As 9 comes and goes. It’s okay—he didn’t say _sharp_ on the letter, did he?

He begins fiddling with his hands nervously as the time gets closer to 10.

He opens the wine and pours himself some to steady his nerves. Cas won’t mind, when he’s here. Will he?

At around 10.30, he hears the ladder creak.

He sits bolt upright, heart jackhammering, hardly able to breathe, as a head of dark hair and a pair of bright blue eyes appear at the trapdoor.

For a moment, the dark obscures it—but then there’s no denying: it isn’t Cas.

“Dean,” Jimmy says gently, stopping so that only his shoulders are in the treehouse. “Can I come in?”

Dean stutters.

“I—yeah—where’s Cas?”

Jimmy presses his lips together, eyebrows sloped downwards in sympathy.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” He shakes his head, sorrow washing his features soft. He clambers up into the treehouse. Dean looks down, and away.

“It’s fine—” He shakes his head, voice frayed by the tears that press at his eyes, but he can hardly finish.

“He said that he didn’t want to come. I tried to persuade him, but he was…” Jimmy looks genuinely upset. “Adamant.” He finishes. Silence for a moment. Jimmy peers at Dean, who refuses to look back. “What happened, Dean?” He asks, at long last.

Dean looks up.

“He hasn’t told you?” He asks.

“I’m asking _you.”_

“So he has?” Dean asks, panicked. Jimmy sighs, looking down.

Oh, God—how can Jimmy even stand to talk to Dean, now? How could a parent forgive someone for breaking their child’s heart?

“He says that he doesn’t want to,” Jimmy says, tiredly. “And usually, he talks to _you_ about the more—well, teenage problems of his. But he says the two of you got in a fight. He isn’t telling me anything else.”

Dean looks down, eyes watering.

With the moonlight setting Jimmy into a swim of blue, he looks more like an apparition than a person.

“Right…” Dean murmurs.

“You don’t normally fight,” Jimmy says, slowly. “Maybe that’s why you’re both so bad at dealing with it, when you do—”

“Cas is flying tomorrow, isn’t he?” Dean asks, interrupting and looking up. Jimmy sighs.

“Yes, he is,” He confirms.

“I thought so,” Dean nods, distracted. “I was just checking I’d got the day right.” He swallows thickly. “If he’s flying tomorrow, Dean says, levelly, “he’ll come. He’ll come.”

“Dean,” Jimmy shakes his head, “I really don’t think—”

“He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” Dean states, glaring. “That’s not Cas. He’ll be here, soon. He just needs time to process. I _know_ him.”

“He says he tried calling you,” Jimmy says, gently. “And that he’s tried, since.” Dean looks away, trying not to listen. “But you didn’t answer. Why is that?”

“You should go,” Dean nods, glancing back over to Jimmy. “He’ll be here, soon, and he won’t want his dad—”

“Dean, I really don’t think—”

“He’s _coming—”_

“You’ll catch your death out here—”

“I’ve got blankets, and Cas is coming, and it’s summer, and _Cas is coming—”_

“Come back with me—”

“Cas is coming!” Dean bellows. Hot tears streak onto his face. Jimmy slumps with pity. Staring at Dean with sorrowful eyes, his head twitches as though he is tempted to shake it resignedly. But then he nods, looking down.

“Of course,” He doesn’t look back up at Dean. “You’ll see him, soon. Don’t stay out here, too long.”

And he clambers down, into the darkness.

 

Dean wakes up to the animated twittering of birds. The sun is high. He’s missed dawn. And Cas didn’t come. His candles have burnt out, probably hours and hours ago. He squints up at the sky—it looks like it’s about 10 in the morning.

He’s missed dawn.

Which means—shit.

He bolts up.

No, no, no—

Cas is going, today. _Now._

He stuffs half his belongings back into his bag and grabs the boombox, but nothing else. It hardly matters, but Dean needs to show Cas what he’d been planning, if Cas will listen. And he _has_ to say goodbye.

He practically jumps down the ladder. Dozens of birds shoot up into flight like shards against the sky at the sound Dean makes, landing at the bottom. He streaks through the wood, over decaying leaves sweetened by decay, sticks so damp that the crumble underfoot, across the bustling stream, over fields, he runs. He runs. He runs.

Midmorning sun paints the houses bright and makes them stand more upright. Dean’s lungs have clambered up into his throat and his right side is cramping up.

And as he reaches his street, heart piercing his ribcage by the second, he already knows. But he still streaks up the path to the Novak’s front door, the door of the big white house across the street, and pounds at it, the thick wood bruising his hand.

“Come on,” He begs, under his breath and through gritted teeth. “Come _on,”_ He thumps, then kicks the door, even harder. “Please!” He shouts, kicking himself back and looking up, desperate. “Cas!” He shouts—but nothing. Both his hands go to the back of his head in hopelessness. “Please!—Plea—” But his voice cuts out.

Cas isn’t here. He’s gone; Jimmy’s car is gone. _Cas_ is gone. Gone forever.

And, at only eighteen years old, so is Dean’s last shot at a happy ending.


	43. Someone to Hear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More rebuilding, more healing, more everything. Are we getting there? Let's hope so.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy :)

**Chapter 43**

 

Dean is having a breather at the hospital entrance when Cas’s car pulls in. His knees almost buckle at the figure climbing out of the driver’s side and making his way over to him. Long beige trenchcoat and scruffy hair and dark circles under his eyes, and a fierce face of the gentlest concern Dean could imagine. His heart closes in on itself.

“Cas—” He says, eyes burning. “You—you came—”

“Of course I did,” Castiel shakes his head, eyes troubled. “I promised I would. You seem surprised.”

Dean shakes his head—but he can’t hide it. He really _is._

“I just—”

Cas’s arms wrap around him and he squeezes tight. Dean all but crumples into it.

The air is fine and still after last night’s storm, the sky paler than usual in Kansas, muted by layers of wispy cloud.

“I realised I didn’t give you a hug, before I left,” Cas says. “So this is to make up for it.”

Dean holds on tight. This might just be the first hug of nine years.

“Thank you…” He murmurs. Cas is impossibly warm. “Thank you—so much, Cas—for everything, I mean—”

“I said it to Ellen, and I’ll say it to you, Dean: I’m your friend. It’s about time I started acting like it.”

Dean shakes his head, but Cas has already pulled back.

“You’ve always acted like it, Cas,” Dean murmurs, though Cas doesn’t allow it.

“I was gonna text you, earlier,” He laughs, saying that I was on my way—but then I remembered you utterly blitzed your phone, last night,”—Dean laughs self-consciously, cheeks flushed—“so I thought this might be useful.” He pulls something out of his deep trench pocket, and hands it to Dean. “I got a new one, a couple of months ago, but this one still works just fine. I’ve cleared everything off of it. All it needs now is a sim.”

Dean stares at Cas. He doesn’t know how to reply.

“I obviously wasn’t trying to be patronising, or anything,” Cas shakes his head quickly, panic flaring in his gaze, “I just thought—I don’t know—if I could help in any way, you know? Uh—phones are practical, and you not having one—especially when Sam is—” He gestures vaguely, a little uncomfortable, toward the hospital doors, “it might be better if you could call and text… and uh… I thought it’d be better to do something practical—”

Dean is the one to hug Cas, this time.

“You’re the kindest, ever…” He murmurs. Cas doesn’t seem to want to accept this one, either, but Dean doesn’t care. “That’s so… thank you so much…”

“Have you eaten?” Castiel breaks away, squinting suspiciously at Dean. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Uh,” Dean shrugs, laughing sheepishly, “a while ago, I guess? I don’t know—”

“Today?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows. Dean skulks.

“No, not yet,” He admits. Cas gives a longsuffering, reprimanding look.

“That’s not good for you, Dean,” He shakes his head. Dean rolls his eyes.

“I’ve been busy—”

“I’m taking you to lunch,” Cas decides.

“Naw—Cas, you really don’t need—”

“But I _want_ to. Do you need to pick anything up? Do you need to let Sam know?”

“I’ve got everything I came with, and Sam’ll be fine,” Dean shakes his head, “he’s probably flirting with his doctor, right now.”

Cas begins to make his way back to his car. Dean follows.

“Flirting?” The writer raises his eyebrows. Dean snorts.

“Tell me about it. Talk about cliché.”

“And Sam is… improving?”

“In the five hours since you saw him last?” Dean asks. “I mean, sure. He’s fine, as far as I can tell, and… we’re fixing things.” Dean flushes at the memory of the conversation he had with his brother, earlier today. “Being more honest with each other. Yeah, he’s fine. We’ve also decided that when he’s out of here, he’s gonna be moving in with me.”

They stop outside Cas’s car. Cas doesn’t unlock it, he just stares at Dean with this soul cleansing gaze, all dismantling and soft, and Dean practically comes undone, swallowing thickly.

“That’s a brilliant idea, Dean,” Castiel affirms. “I’m so glad, honestly…” He unlocks the car, now, and opens the driver’s door. “I hope that’s really good for you. For _both_ of you.”

Dean smiles self-consciously and gets in after Cas.

“Uh—well, yeah. Totally. I think it will be,” For some reason, he can’t seem to think straight around his old friend, he feels all hot and cold and self-aware like he’s a damn teen again. “I—I hope—”

“I still don’t know where you live, you know,” Cas comments offhandedly, starting up the engine.

Dean falters.

“What?”

“Where you live, now. I just find it funny, I don’t know. Last night, you wouldn’t tell me,” Castiel explains. He pulls out of his parking space.

“Oh—” Dean frowns. “Why?”

Castiel shrugs.

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t I tell you? And why do you find it funny?”

Another shrug.

“I don’t know,” Castiel answers, offhandedly. They turn out of the hospital. “It’s just—I spent all my childhood, basically, and adolescence, living opposite you. I pretty much _always_ knew where you were. Now, when I imagine you at your place, it’s just some kind of blank space.”

Cas imagines Dean? Cas thinks about Dean?

“And, you said you were embarrassed. That upset me,” He says, frankly, to which Dean flushes, squirming imperceptibly in his seat. “Why would it be embarrassing for me to see where you live?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs, averting his gaze. He laughs self-deprecatingly for a beat. “I talk a lot of shit when I’m drunk, Cas… You know me…”

“You also never used to get that kind of drunk,” Castiel murmurs, squinting at Dean. “So why did you get so drunk, last night?”

“You invited me to lunch just to nag me?” Dean asks with a frown. Castiel draws back, sighing.

“Sorry, no—”

“And ask personal questions?” Dean raises his eyebrows, face hot—though not with embarrassment. “Ones I’m not comfortable with answering?”

“Sorry,” Cas says, a little more firmly this time—and in such a way that lets Dean know he’s not up for any amount of unnecessary fighting, or for Dean to be deliberately taking offense. Dean retreats. Offense was, ironically, his best defence against whatever emotions Cas wants to draw out of him. Which, Dean realises, was probably the entire purpose of this whole fucking ‘lunch break’.

Silence for a couple of moments, just the sound of wheels on tarmac.

“Anyway,” Cas blinks long-sufferingly at Dean’s clamped jaw, apparently resolving to continue the conversation, “you said you were embarrassed, so I took you to Mary’s, but she wasn’t in—I guess in the matter of one hour, between me going to the Roadhouse and Ellen telling me you hadn’t shown up, and me going to look for you, find you, and then trying to bring you to your old place, she must’ve shot off to Sammy in hospital.”

“Why were you going to the Roadhouse?” Dean asks, quite forgetting his attempt at disgruntled silence with the writer. His voice comes out innocent and soft, like a kid’s, as he stares at Cas and attempts to make it as _un-_ doting as possible.

“Looking for you,” Cas answers with an honest frown.

“But _why?”_ Dean asks. “You didn’t know I was in trouble, then.”

“No,” Castiel agrees. “But do I have to think you’re in trouble to want to see you?”

Dean falters. He stares at Castiel, sat in the driver’s seat.

“You wanted to see me?” He asks, lips parted. Cas’s gaze flickers over to him and he smirks something equally affectionate and long-suffering.

“Of course,” He replies. Pause. Then, “why were you embarrassed for me to see your apartment?”

Dean scowls.

“Why do you care?”

The question comes out close to a bite. Dean feels weirdly like a teenager again, all on the defensive. And Cas could easily answer with another bite, could easily snarl in response with curled lip and an eye roll—but no. Cas nods slowly, listening, processing, unpicking, like Jimmy used to—a thought which chokes Dean up, and Castiel glances over to him with a worried frown. Dean’s expecting a classic _‘because you’re my friend, Dean’,_ or, _‘I’ve know you for twenty four years, Dean’,_ or even a _‘why do you think? Why would you ask me something like that?’—_ but he doesn’t get any of these. Instead, the answer, phrased as a question, is far more uncomfortable.

“You think I wouldn’t?” He asks.

There’s a lot implied in that question, and a heavy blow of a reminder about last night, the night Dean can’t remember and equally can’t forget, and everything Cas did for Dean, then.

Dean shrivels in his seat.

“I don’t know,” He mumbles. “I’m sorry. I become an asshole when I get defensive, and I get defensive when I get uncomfortable…”

Cas laughs.

“Believe me, I remember.”

Dean flushes.

“But—” Dean continues, “it’s not that… I mean, it’s not like I don’t think you care—not when I stop and think about it rationally. Like, you’ve shown, time and time again, that you really _do,_ I’m just…” He trails off.

“Paranoid?” Castiel finishes with a gentle smile. Dean frowns.

“Maybe a little,” He admits. “But—I guess I just wanted to hear you say—”

“I really care, Dean,” Castiel replies earnestly. Then, again, and there’s no getting out of it, this time, “why were you embarrassed?”

Dean practically groans.

“Well…” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not easy to answer this without sounding like an asshole, Cas,” He glances back over to his friend, who seems unperturbed by this news.

“I promise I won’t be offended.”

“I just,” Dean shakes his head, face solar temperatures, “it’s hard—y’know? I’m… my place is small, and cramped, and what with me paying for Sammy’s… anyway, it’s not nice, in there—and your house was always so beautiful, and homely—and you’re a hotshot writer, now, and I’m just…” Dean flushes. “Me. A music teacher. And you probably live in some fancy place, and I just… I thought that if you saw it, you’d…”

“I’d…” Castiel squints over at Dean, “judge you?”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“Basically…”

“That doesn’t make _you_ sound like an asshole, Dean, it makes _me_ sound like one,” Castiel shakes his head, staring at the road.

“No, exactly,” Dean overcuts Cas, “and I mean—you’d never do any of that, right? That’s not a real question. That’s what I’m saying, _I’m_ the asshole, for thinking that way.”

“Maybe I’m the asshole, for _making_ you think that way,” The writer counters. Dean shakes his head, but Cas continues. “Anyway… I never would, Dean. Judge you, I mean. I never would. And I’m not some hotshot writer, I’m your friend. I… I hope one day, you can share parts of your life with me, without any shame.”

Dean blushes.

“I promise I’ll try.”

Cas flashes him a soft smile. It turns Dean’s insides into pulp.

“How’s your hangover treating you?”

Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or roll his eyes.

“Let’s just say eating something will probably do me some good.”

Castiel chuckles.

“Okay, so I’m guessing you won’t be wanting anything too fancy? Lots of salt, lots of starch?”

Dean grins.

“You have no idea how good that sounds.”

Cas pulls the car over outside a diner that looks just the right amount of trashy and turns to Dean.

“How does this place look?” He asks.

“God, perfect,” Dean answers. The writer chuckles, opening his door and getting out. Dean does the same. The air is still clear and cool after last night’s storm.

“Okay, good. I’m glad you haven’t changed too much.”

“What d’ya mean?”

Castiel pushes open the door and a bell tinkles. Dean follows him.

“You still like diner food,” Cas says simply. “I don’t know. It’s just nice that you’re still very _you._ Booth seat? _”_

“Sure,” Dean answers with a frown, following his friend. A blonde haired waitress with a fringe and a yellow apron comes over and welcomes the pair, giving them menus. When she leaves, Dean turns back to Cas. “So you think I _have_ changed?” He asks. Castiel blinks at frowns at his question, which, Dean realises, is pretty damn weird.

“Um,” He falters, eyebrows drawing his features together, “I’m not sure…” He admits. “I haven’t exactly been around to track the changes,” He points out, to which Dean blushes. “But during shiva, I guess, I tried to work it out, a little…”

“Yeah?”

There’s enough natural light in here that it doesn’t feel too kitsch or imposing. The booth seats are a faded blue-green. Dean shifts in his awkwardly and it squeaks beneath him.

“Yes,” Castiel nods slowly, looking down at the table with a frown. He cracks a smile. “And I was angry, for a long time, which marred my perception of you,” Dean grows hot and his heart begins to twitch and twinge nervously, “and you were grieving, which meant you weren’t quite yourself, but…”

“I still don’t feel like myself,” Dean shakes his head, chest tight.

“And that’s the funny thing about grief,” Castiel says, looking up. “And something my dad always used to say: it changes you. And every time, and every time in a different way, I guess.” Dean’s lips are drawn down, his eyes begin to prickle.

“Man, I hate that,” He shakes his head, resolving to look out the window to the intermittent people floating by, going about their daily business, and not at Castiel. “I hate… Y’know, all this ‘things’ll never be the same’ crap. It’s not crap, obviously,” He amends, noticing Cas’s expression. “Like—I know it’s _true._ But I hate it,” He shakes his head. His tears are hot in his eyes and he desperately wishes them away. “I’m—I miss Jimmy _so much._ I just want it to stop. I want it to end, you know? I know that sounds fucked up, but—”

“It doesn’t sound fucked up,” Castiel shakes his head.

“—It does,” Dean tries to swallow, but finds he can’t. “But it’s agony. I’m in so much pain. And this is all such a stupid thing to say to Jimmy’s _son,_ and God, I’m so sorry, Cas—”

“It’s not stupid,” Cas nearly glares at Dean’s words, and it cuts Dean short. “And don’t be sorry. I understand. I guess for some people, having people acknowledge your pain, and acknowledge that it isn’t gonna just ‘go away’, is a comfort. For other people—and maybe you’re one of them?—it sounds a little more like a death sentence.”

“Right…” Dean nods, staring down at the polished table. “That’s pretty much it…”

“But you know, Dean,” Cas presses gently, leaning forward. Dean looks down at their hands, which are an inch apart, now. “It _will_ stay with you. And not in a bad way. I can’t promise that it’ll all be good, and narratives of suffering always having a purpose can be so toxic, but… Jimmy was a good part of your life. That’s why this hurts. And there was so much sadness already surrounding your relationship with Jimmy, because of your relationship with me—which complicated it. And I’m so sorry about that,” Dean tries to shake his head, but Cas presses on through it. “This isn’t a clean break,” He reasons. “and you didn’t prepare for it. How could you? How could anyone?”

“Right,” Dean nods, eyes burning, lip trembling. He swallows back tears thickly. “I miss him,” He manages to say, voice small, at which Cas softens, eyes glittering. He takes a hold of Dean’s hands, which Dean realises is a gesture Cas has been building up to, and squeezes them.

“Yeah,” He says. Another squeeze. “Me too.”

“I don’t even know what healing would look like,” Dean shakes his head with a laugh. “Or what healing _is. Can_ you heal? From something like this?”

Castiel shrugs.

“I don’t have any idea. But—I know my mom’s death changed my dad. I know it changed Gabriel and Michael. Because it happened when I was so young, I’m not really able to track what I would’ve been like, if it hadn’t happened when it happened, but…” He laughs and shakes his head, “I’m sure you’ll agree that when we first met, I was a pretty melancholy child. And carried on being one.” Dean lips twitch upwards into a teary smile. “But it changed them, from where they’d been heading as people. And Jimmy always carried it, even when he wasn’t remembering it—if that makes sense. And he was sad. But he was still happy. He still found a home—made one—out of the ruins of our lives.”

“And what? Now that Jimmy’s gone, we have to do the same?” Dean asks, pulling back, eyes burning with anger, now. “Even though—everyone should’ve stopped, Cas! It feels wrong, everything’s still going—people walking down the street don’t know, they don’t know that the kindest man in the world _died,_ that one minute he was here, and then—” Dean shakes his head and his words make him cry in earnest. “—And that’s the other thing that fucks me up, that I can’t stop thinking about—one minute he was here, and then he wasn’t, and I don’t _understand._ The moment where Jimmy—”

Dean stops himself because he realises he’s made Cas cry.

“That makes you angry,” The writer nods, looking down, his face damp. Dean feels like a dick. Like, an actual _bastard_ for making Cas counsel him through the death of _Cas’s_ dad. Jimmy was _Cas’s,_ not Dean’s.

“I’m sorry,” Dean shakes his head.

“No, I get it,” Castiel says quickly. “And it’s terrifying to think about. And people say we’ll carry on, but _we_ don’t know how.”

“Yeah…”

“When people die, Dean,” Castiel says, looking up at him, softly, “we say ‘I can’t carry on’. We say it over and over and over. But we carry on. Even as you’re sobbing and beating against a wall, even as you’re curled up in bed with your eyes burning tears, you’re carrying on. People don’t say _that_ enough.”

Dean blinks out another handful of hot tears. He shakes his head.

“I’ve missed you so much, Cas,” He croaks.

Castiel laughs.

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Silence. Their food arrives. The waitress seems a little weirded out by their tears.

“Have you been crying in public, much?” Dean asks suddenly. Cas laughs at the abruptness of the question, then at the question itself.

“Not much—but then, I haven’t been out and about, much. I’m scared about going back to Edinburgh,” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck, “because it means going back to work. And what if I cry in a lecture? What if I can’t stop myself?”

Dean nods, throat dry.

“But then,” Castiel continues, “I kind of think, _fuck it,_ you know? I’m allowed to be sad about this. My _dad_ died. And I’m teaching English Literature, not Computer Science,” He laughs. “All my students probably _love_ crying. So if I share with them, maybe we’ll manage to get a whole lecture theatre in tears.”

“You could at least get a whole seminar, I bet,” Dean grins. Cas laughs, shaking his head.

“I’m sure…” He smiles distantly and pulls his milkshake toward him, taking a drink. “What about you?” He asks with a frown. “Have you been crying out in the open?”

“Fuck, no,” Dean wrinkles his nose. Cas rolls his eyes at Dean’s feigned masculinity.

“And here I was, thinking you were emotionally adjusted…”

Dean reddens.

“No—all I mean is, I’ve been too embarrassed…” He licks his lips nervously. “Every time I’ve come close, I’ve snuck off, somewhere. Ellen’s caught me crying in the store cupboard of The Roadhouse _so_ many times… I’ve pretty much run out of classes, to stop myself from crying in front of the kids. My students have started joking I’m going out to smoke,” He laughs, and Castiel does, too. “Which is better than them knowing the truth.”

“Why do you think that?” Cas asks, genuinely curious.

Dean finds he doesn’t have an answer.

“You were saying what you thought had changed about me,” Dean says, deciding to change the subject. Castiel blinks in amusement at the obvious clumsiness of this, but otherwise lets Dean get away with it.

“Right… And then I was going to say, it’s hard to tell, because grief changes people, anyway. I didn’t speak to you for nine years, and then Jimmy died, and then I did. So I have no idea what you were like before that. But,” He breathes in, gathering, Dean guesses, his thoughts. “You’re still too hard on yourself,” He decides. “You still struggle to be kind to yourself. You’re still too critical of yourself. You still avoid conversations like the one we just had, until breaking point, at which it all comes bursting out, and you find it difficult to articulate yourself—”

“Cas, this sounds like you’re just criticising me,” Dean states, drawing back. The writer sighs.

“I’m not trying to. These are the things I notice, because they make me sad—”

“And the talking feelings thing, that’s definitely new, that’s definitely not a ‘still’. I used to talk about how I felt. With _you,_ with Jimmy. But I used to do it. All the time. Or at least a lot more.”

“It must have been hard to have that taken away from you,” Castiel says softly, not responding to Dean’s offense. A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitches.

“Maybe…” He looks away.

“You still avoid eye contact when you feel things are getting too personal,” Castiel states with a laugh. Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, again, maybe,” He makes a point at looking back at Cas. Cas beams.

“You’re still generous,” Castiel smiles, as Dean finally begins eating. “Do you still love food?” He asks with a squint that makes Dean snort into his burger.

“I miss Jimmy’s cooking,” Is the diplomatic answer Dean decides on. “It’s been… I haven’t been hungry, these past couple of months. But thinking about Jimmy’s cooking,” He says. “Man. Man, I miss it.”

“He was a great cook,” Cas’s eyes crinkle at their corners. “It’s one of his traits I _wish_ I’d inherited.”

“Gabriel can cook pretty well, can’t he?”

“Yes,” Cas answers, playing with his fries, “though mainly sweet things. He makes really good purple velvet cupcakes.”

“The hell is purple velvet?” Dean asks with a frown.

“Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Red velvet but with purple food dye instead of red?”

“That’s it,” Cas confirms, lips playing upwards. Dean snorts.

“Classic Gabe.”

“Such a filthy nonconformist.”

“He’d do anything to be edgy.”

“Right?!”

Dean beams.

“You really don’t know how to make _anything?”_

“Pretty much,” Cas shrugs. “I’ve learnt, maybe two new recipes? Since we were eighteen. And like, not memorised. I mean, I’ve _attempted_ two new recipes.”

“Damn,” Dean shakes his head with a grin. “That’s embarrassing. What are they?”

“Minestrone,” Cas answers, “and chili.”

“ _Hell_ no,” Dean shakes his head. “I’m not counting chili.”

“Why not?” Cas frowns defensively. Dean could trace the lines on his face and feels a curl of inexplicable jealousy at the shadows and light that are able to do so, touching his skin and carving across it. “It’s food, right?”

“I’m not debating that, Cas,” Dean rolls his eyes, “but that’s not something you should _need_ a recipe. You can just improvise chili.”

“No you can’t—”

“No, _you_ can’t, apparently.”

The writer scowls for a moment, face scrunched up and damn adorable, but then his expression softens unaccountably into something affectionate and smug.

“I guess you’ll just have to teach me, some time.”

Dean’s cheeks heat.

“I’ll do my best,” He twitches a smile, but it slips uncertainly onto his lips. He swallows and looks sharply at his once-best friend. “You think we’ll have time for that, some day?” He asks. Castiel frowns softly.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean,” Dean coughs awkwardly into a closed fist, insides twisting uncertainly, “you live in England.”

“Scotland,” Castiel corrects.

“Okay, Scotland,” Dean allows. “You really think you’re gonna be able to just _pop over_ and have cooking lessons from me?”

Cas presses his lips together.

“I never said ‘pop over’…” He grumbles.

“I’m not trying to be an ass…”

Castiel nods, drawing himself from his thoughts.

“I know,” He confirms. “Of course you aren’t. And you’re not being an ass. But I’ll be back in November, until early January. I’ll be visiting Kansas a lot more—I’ve decided.” He pauses a moment, and frowns down at his fries, playing with one of them thoughtfully.

“Why?” Dean asks. Castiel looks up at him with a frown.

“Why?” He repeats. “Why what?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“What you just said. Why’re you gonna spend more time in Kansas?”

“We get long holidays,” Cas shrugs, shifting in his seat. He takes a weirdly careless bite of the fry he’d been playing with. “And—I should’ve spent more time here, over the past nine years. Especially when dad was—” But he stops here.

Dean presses his lips together, brows drawn together.

“You can’t beat yourself up over that. You _live_ in Scotland. You’d come back and stay at your old house twice a year—not that I was—” Dean cuts himself off with a flush. Castiel regards him curiously as he clears his throat. “Anyway, flying is expensive, and regular trips back to the US wouldn’t be feasible.”

Cas smiles softly, looking down.

“Well… I’ll be back in November, and looking forward to seeing you.”

Dean sputters. He’d been stuffing some French fries into his mouth when Cas decided to say this, and now he all but chokes on them.

“You—” He coughs, ignoring Cas’s smirk. “Really?”

“Really,” Cas confirms, eyes creasing at their corners. Dean stares. Cas takes a drink of his milkshake, apparently unaware of the intensity with which Dean is clinging to those last words of his. Dean watches the column of Cas’s throat as he swallows and a silent breath that could easily teeter into a sob or a moan, hot against his lips, escapes him. The thoughtful blues turn down to his meal and Cas picks up his burger, smiling vaguely at it. Dean wants to track the movements of Cas’s mind. He wants to trace the stubble lining the jaw, the slightly hollowed cheeks and the sunken eyes, the bolt of Cas’s jaw and the shell of his ear—first with his fingertips, and then with his mouth.

He tracks, instead, the lines of Cas’s shoulders, sloped in that ridiculous trenchcoat of his.

“You haven’t changed much,” Castiel decides, looking up, and Dean all but jumps out of his skin with the suddenness of it all and how he’s basically been caught in an unrequited eye-fucking.

“What?” Dean asks, nonplussed.

“I said, you haven’t changed much,” Cas repeats. He takes another bite of his burger, nodding and chewing it slowly, and Dean is actually reminded to eat his own food. “Though you certainly seem to have a smaller appetite than when we were kids,” Castiel laughs, gesturing down to Dean’s plate, where Dean is pushing fries about with the knuckle of his index finger.

“Yeah, well… Like I said,” Dean mumbles, “it’s been hard to eat, since Jimmy… And anyway, today I’m worried, so…”

“About Sam?” Cas raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah.”

The writer softens.

“You’re a good big brother,” He states, so quiet and gentle that it nearly draws a sob out of Dean’s chest.

“Yeah, right,” Dean mumbles, lip trembling. He can’t help but evade Cas’s gaze.

“You’re a good big brother,” Castiel repeats, a lot firmer this time, and maybe even a little angry. It makes Dean look up. The writer’s expression is hard and intolerant, like it was when they were kids and Cas was being stubborn over something inevitably stupid. “Which is something that hasn’t changed about you. You’re loyal and generous, still. And still too hard on yourself.”

Dean flushes and looks away.

“You still can’t accept compliments,” Cas continues, and Dean rubs the back of his neck. “And you’re still _so good_ at music. Oh my gosh,” He smiles, the expression splitting his features as Dean flushes and squirms in his seat, “I couldn’t believe it, when I first heard you perform. You were so good. So, unbelievably good.”

“Cas, stop, this is fuckin’ _embarrassing—”_

“And another thing,” Castiel frowns, “that I hadn’t really realised, until now—but now I see it—you’re really good with kids, aren’t you?”

“Huh?”

“I thought it was just you being a good big brother to Sammy, when we were younger. You really were so good with him. But—now—I see that you’re good with _all_ children. From babies to teens. And you _love_ them. And they love you _._ ”

A reluctant smile tugs at Dean’s lips. He shrugs, and finally sips his milkshake.

“Yeah, well…” He murmurs. “Kids are pretty simple, right? I reckon I am, as well…” He gives off a shy laugh. “We’ve got a lot of common ground.”

“I think _you’ve_ got a good heart,” Castiel corrects. Dean chokes on the bite of burger he’d been taking. The writer frowns. “Have you forgotten how to eat, Dean?”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles, but the writer smirks.

“The food goes _down_ your throat, not up it—”

“Shut up,” Dean repeats, leaning forward and glaring at his friend.

“Although if last night was anything to go by, you _do_ seem to have a problem with keeping food down—”

Dean throws a French fry and it hits Castiel square in the face. He has to stop himself from cheering.

“Dick!” Cas hisses, but Dean only laughs.

“Y’know, _you_ haven’t changed, either, Cas,” He beams, rocking back where he sits. “You still have a shitty sense of humour—”

“You’re one to talk,”

“You’re still stubborn as hell, you’re still a dick, yourself—you still have the coldest death stare I’ve ever seen—”

Cas finally laughs.

“—Seriously,” Dean continues with a grin, “I—all through shiva, you were glaring me down. I nearly froze. _Hell_ could’ve froze, with the look you were giving.”

Cas’s expression turns sad.

“Really?” He asks, voice quiet.

“What do you mean, really?” Dean asks with a frown.

Cas looks away, locking his hands together on the table.

“I… Of course I did, looking back…” He says, uncertainly. “But I’m sorry.” He looks back over to Dean. “Really.”

“What for?” Dean’s frown winds further across his features.

“For being so cold to you,” Castiel explains, expression troubled with repentance.

“No,” Dean shakes his head quickly, “don’t say sorry—I deserved coldness—”

“Not even a little,” Castiel overrides, leaning forward and staring at Dean in a way that twists the air out of Dean’s lungs like it’s ribbon. “You never deserved that,” He says, again with total certainty, but this time it’s gentle. “You deserved a lot of things, but not coldness.”

Cas’s last comment leaves Dean bewildered and a little frightened.

“You deserved a _friend,_ ” The writer clarifies, stilling Dean’s thoughts, “you deserved a companion, you deserved someone who understood, someone to listen—”

“Cas, I can’t expect you to listen to my stupid sorrows when it’s _your_ dad who’s—” But Dean can’t finish, and so gestures vaguely, hand waving limply in the air to cover up—or at least distract from—the fact that his eyes are now pricked with tears.

“You can, and you should,” Castiel says. “You’d listen my sadnesses. I just articulate them differently, and I vocalise them less often. But you always— _always—_ still listen. You always have. Is it too much that I should offer the same to you?”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“Well,” He mutters, “I… I appreciate it…”

“And I appreciate that it isn’t easy for you to just open up,” Cas reasons, tone softer, now. “And it’d be stupid for me to expect so much from you. But—like I said. Please try. I really care. I really want you to be doing okay, Dean. I really want to see you happy.”

Dean flushes.

“Right back at ya,” And, of all things, Dean shoots some fucking _finger guns_ at Cas.

The writer rolls his eyes.

“Someday, I swear, Dean,” He says, tone serious—but something in his expression betrays affection—“we’ll have a serious conversation, and you _won’t_ derail it.”

“Hm,” Dean shrugs, unconvinced.

“Eat some more fries,” Castiel says, sounding more like a parent than a friend, now, “you need the salt.”

“Yes, _sir.”_

“Fuck you, Winchester.”

“You got much packing to do?” Dean asks, swallowing a mouthful.

Cas shrugs.

“A little. But I can handle it.”

“You, uh—d’you want me to come over and help, at some point?”

Castiel squints.

“Pardon?”

“Like, tonight, I don’t know,” Dean clarifies, face hot. “It’s just that—you’ve done so much for me—”

“I did none of it with hope of reward, Dean—”

“Yeah, but all I mean is,” Dean flushes, “let me be a good friend to _you,_ y’know?”

“You already _are—”_

“But I’ll be up all night, anyway, thinking about Sam—and I can’t visit him, after eight—”

Cas softens, shoulders slumping with sympathy. Dean thinks about everything he lost with Cas nine years ago and if he has any chance of regaining it.

“Come over after eight, then. You can make both of us some dinner. And show me a thing or two about cooking.”

Dean beams. Light begins to flutter in shafts inside his chest. So does an awful lot of hope.

**Author's Note:**

> And if you like this story, please check out my other stuff!
> 
> [Amnesia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2526656/chapters/5615294) \- Memory-loss fic where Castiel wakes up in a hospital bed, an angel who married a human in a world where angels are oppressed brutally by humankind. At first Castiel cannot forgive himself for marrying a human, but despite his reluctance, he falls in love with Dean all over again.
> 
> [The College Years](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4027741/chapters/9055678) \- Prequel to Amnesia. Will make perfect sense if you read it on its own. College AU of how Dean and Cas fell in love in the years prior to their marriage, when Castiel refused to even associate with humans, let alone date one.
> 
> [The Devil's Epitaph](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7721914/chapters/17598460) \- Medieval Fantasy AU. Dean and Cas are princes who are betrothed to one another, Castiel convinced that Dean will hate him for being forced into a marriage, and Dean convinced he will hate Cas for being an angel, when he blames angels for the death of his mother. Obviously, they can't help falling in love. And then it gets complicated.


End file.
